More Commentfics
Another day, another batch of fics previously posted elsewhere, all unbetaed. Some of these were from the commentfic meme I posted recently. No spoilers or settings past "Exit Wounds."
***
Title: The Little Things
Author: nancybrown
Characters/Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Rating: R (language)
Summary: The little things drive him crazy.
Prompt: rexluscus, nastiness/anger or jealousy
***
It's the little things that drive him bugshit.
Jack doesn't mind the way Ianto looks up to him whenever there's a problem, like Jack's the one who's gonna have the answers and save the day. It's the best part of being a Big Damn (Good-Looking) Superhero. He enjoys the attention, and the little thank yous that come when they're alone.
But he hates the accusing looks Ianto gives him whenever he comes back from the dead, as if Jack isn't completely fucking jealous of the fact that one day, Ianto will get to do this and it'll stick.
Bugshit.
***
Title: Game Day
Author: nancybrown
Characters: Andy, Rhys, Ianto
Rating: PG
Summary: Their regular table is ready.
Prompt: eldarwannabe, Andy, something happy with a Welsh character
***
Andy takes off his hat as he passes inside. The drizzle is cold but the pub is warm and comfortably loud, and he's off-duty. Their regular table is ready, not so close to the telly so they crane their necks, not so far they can't see or hear. The waitress has already sighted him and will bring him his first beer any moment.
Andy drops into his chair and lets out a sigh. "I miss anything?"
"Nah," says Rhys, eyes glued to the screen. "Match just started."
Ianto's texting with one hand, but he toasts Andy with his beer with the other. Something from work, then. Gwen and that big bloke hate being rugby widows when the matches are on, and find ways to annoy both of Andy's pals. Sometimes, he thinks as his beer arrives, it's nice to be single.
There's a good kick, and they shout at the screen together. It's also nice to have mates who get you.
***
Title: The Power of Soup
Author: nancybrown
Characters/Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Rating: PG
Summary: "Shoot me." "No."
Prompt: taffimai, Jack with a fever
***
"Shoot me."
"No."
"It's the fastest cure."
"Owen reckons antibiotics and a good night's rest will do the same thing and not make a mess."
"But I'm dying. I know what it feels like."
"More chills?"
"Just give me the gun. I'll clean up when I come around."
"Bloodstains don't come out of leather, and as it's my sofa you'd be ruining, the answer is still no."
"I could go into the bathroom."
"Eat your soup, Jack."
"It's cold."
"Then I'll reheat it. Don't commit suicide while I'm in the kitchen."
"You're sexy when you're cross."
"I see the delirium is back. We are not fooling around until you're no longer contagious."
"We should call into work to see if everything's okay. Or go in. I could rest there."
"Sit down, Jack. Everything is fine. Gwen will call if there's an issue. You're under orders from your doctor to rest. I'm under orders from Gwen to keep you out from underfoot while you do."
"But I'm bored."
"I rented us some DVDs from that shop you like. I asked the clerk to look up which ones you rented most."
"You did?"
"Check my bag. It's on the floor."
"Um."
"What?"
"Can I add a rule that what a guy happens to rent while his favourite personal assistant is in London for a meeting with the MoD should by no means be held against him later?"
"Check the bag. Soup's almost ready."
"These are all Gene Kelly films."
"You like Gene Kelly. You can say thank you by not taking this opportunity to go into any reminiscence of dating the man."
"I wouldn't say 'dated.'"
"Eat your soup."
"Eating. Thanks."
"You're welcome."
"No, I mean ... Thanks."
"I know what you meant. You're welcome."
***
Title: Belonging
Characters/Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Rating: PG
Summary: Another conversation on another rooftop on another rainy night.
Prompt: pearlseed, something romantic with Jack and Ianto, optional side of John Hart
***
Few things beat a Cardiff street on a late November night for chilly and blustery, but standing on a high rooftop -- without even the protection of the brick buildings surrounding him as they funnelled the cold, moist air like a wind tunnel down the back of his neck -- was on that list. The rain had stopped, which was a small mercy, leaving only puddles to splash into even up here, pooling in the hollows left by the uneven gravel surface.
"I can hear you walking, you know," Jack said, not looking back.
"I can hear you thinking, you know," Ianto replied, not joining him at the edge. His private war with vertigo was going to stay private.
"Hope you're kidding, otherwise I'm going to have to frisk you for alien pendants."
"You might start with checking around my neck."
"What fun would that be? Anyway, maybe you got a piercing or something you didn't tell me about." Ianto couldn't read much of Jack's expression from behind, but he could imagine the pretend-thoughtful one growing. "Actually, now that I bring it up ... "
"Let's pretend we already ran through the conversation and you finished with the story about the real Prince Albert."
Jack's head did turn then. "I told you about that?"
More than once, with expansive (and exaggerated) hand gestures, whilst they were catching a breath in between games, or curling together for a little sleep. Before the two thousand years. Before everything. Before Jack forgot so much. "You mentioned it."
"Oh. It's a great story."
"Yeah." He took a breath, and the cold air hurt his lungs. He'd done too much running these last few days. "I don't suppose you want to talk about it."
"Albert?"
"John." Ianto hadn't wanted to say his name, but someone had to break the glass. John Hart had come back yet again, and this time nobody had died, so that was practically a victory. But Jack's face had gone dark when John had wheedled him to join up for some good times, and Ianto could only stand so many shadows. "If you wanted to go off with him for a while, Gwen and I could hold things down here."
"You're kidding me."
"No, we're quite good at covering."
"Ianto." He'd turned around all the way now. Without the proper wind, his greatcoat no longer billowed around him as impressively, but wrapped around him in the wind like an old man's coat. "I'm not running off with him."
"I didn't think you'd go forever." Except for that he did, Ianto knew inside. Jack didn't belong here, bound to a small city on an insignificant planet long in his own past. Jack belonged out there with John, adventuring amongst the stars and perhaps keeping a tighter rein on his loony ex. "Just for a while," he lied, mostly to himself. "Get your head back."
"I'm not leaving."
"You want to."
"Sometimes."
Ianto didn't let the word faze him. He'd known, right? It was practically a relief to hear Jack say so. "So go."
Jack closed his eyes. Perhaps he had to scrape for a memory, perhaps he was just tired. "I belong here."
"On a rooftop in the dark in Cardiff?"
His eyes opened again, and Jack did a strange little sweep up and down. "Yeah. Apparently so." He took the few steps over to where Ianto stood away from the ledge, and took his hand. "That's where you are."
"I'd rather be anywhere else, and I'm from here."
"Not me," Jack said, and finally, there was a hint of a smile. He squeezed, and emphasised with the pressure, "I belong here."
Ianto frowned. Then Jack tugged him a little, reaching into his pocket. After a moment, tinny music floated up, no doubt from the speaker of his mobile, something old with too many trombones. He didn't resist as Jack started swaying with him, light dancing to music only Jack remembered.
"I belong here," Jack repeated, saying the words into Ianto's cheek, and finally, finally, he got it.
***
Title: Accomplice
Autho: nancybrown
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Characters: Irene, Mary
Rating: PG
Summary: Irene gets a partner.
Prompt: queenfanfiction, Sherlock/John/IreneAdler/MaryMorstan/Moriarty
***
Irene's a thief, a good one, or she'd be in prison by now, but not so good that she hasn't attracted unwanted attention. Lestrade's least favourite ASBO has been sniffing around asking questions Irene doesn't want answered.
Something should be done.
Her saviour comes quite unexpectedly, wearing a simple suit and last year's flats. "I'm Mary," the girl says breathlessly. "I've read all about you." Irene's open to flattery, but she's more open to an accomplice, witting or not. Someone can collect the last damning cheque whilst Irene herself takes her haul to Italy or Monaco.
"Charmed," she says, smiling.
***
Title: Will You Remember Me When I Go?
Author: nancybrown
Characters/Pairing: Jack/Ianto, Jack/OCs
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: dubcon/noncon, dark!Jack
Summary: Jack takes what he needs.
Prompt: From twclssckinkmeme: Coersion/manipulation. Jack has no qualms about retconning Ianto for his own selfish reasons, when the need arises.
AN: No, SERIOUSLY. Darkfic.
***
Jack is an open wound, throbbing and bleeding. It's Alex's blood he can't seem to wash off, and Trisha's, and Manuel's. He's been sticky with it, nearly bathing in it as he performed the lonely job of locking their bodies away in the vault. Not his blood, but he's bleeding.
He used to deal with this kind of horror with booze. His last sponsor died five years ago and he's due, but what if he misses his chance to see the Doctor because he's dying from alcohol poisoning again? He'll indulge other vices tonight, striding through the ever-fucking-present Cardiff rain. It's not cold enough to snow or sleet, just to pour this miserable winter wetness down on his head, soaking through the sanctity of his coat.
The club blasts warm air in his face, and the odour of men wearing too much cologne. The music throbs like his also ever-fucking-present pulse, like the life blood he can't seem to bleed out sufficiently. He hates this music, but he dances in the centre of the floor, grinding his crotch against one body after the other until he's wild and ready to pop.
Jack drags the closest body out into the cold, wet alley, protected from the rain by a dripping overhang. There's no time to talk, not with his tongue doing its damnedest to crawl down this guy's tonsils despite the nasty aftertaste of his last smoke. There's no room to think, not with both zips dropping to grasp hold of hot cocks. There's no space on his skin for tacky blood when a sticky shot of come covers his hand. He's still hard and ready, pushing the guy to face the filthy, damp wall.
The guy trembles, and the swirling mist that is Jack's brain right now throws up a sign that doesn't stay "Stop," but does suggest yielding.
"Not gonna fuck you unless you beg," Jack groans, biting the words into the guy's left ear.
"Don't," comes the reply, almost a plea itself, and that's not the voice of the twenty-something Jack had intended to pull.
Jack rolls him around again, takes in the face. "How old are you, kid?"
"Nineteen." It's a lie, not a thick one. The kid is seventeen, maybe eighteen, and doesn't have that broken face the boys that age do when they're whoring themselves for drugs or money. Jack can't stand that face. He's got higher standards, though not by much.
"First time in this club?" First time at all?
"Fuck you."
Jack spins him back against the wall. Death in his thoughts, he's of a mind to take what he wants. Instead he rubs his dick hard against the kid's backside for friction and clears his mind of the last time he fucked Trisha, the last time he shot semen onto Alex's belly. He grabs his cock to wank himself to climax, biting down on the kid's neck hard enough to draw blood and making a mess on his back.
Jack's the one trembling now, and the kid pushes him away, rubbing at the tooth marks. "Fucking vampire."
Jack grins as he puts himself away and redoes his trousers. There's a shocky look on the kid's face he doesn't like as the boy turns and does up his own flies. "You okay, kid?"
The hand keeps rubbing at his neck. It's a fidget. He's starting to freak out. "Jesus, what just happened?"
I used you, and in this light you're younger than I thought. Shit.
"Nothing much. Here." Jack digs into his coat pocket and pulls out a bottle. One white pill in his hand, and a comforting smile on his face. Normally he reserves this for the alien sightings, but since he wants to down a truckload of these himself and forget the twentieth century, he can't talk. "Aspirin. Sorry for the bite."
The kid looks at his hand, clearly doesn't believe Jack's bullshit story, and dry-swallows it anyway. He doesn't say thanks.
"You got a home?"
The kid half-shrugs, teenager-speak for "Yeah, what?" Jack's been the father of multiple teenagers and knows it well.
"Get inside out of the cold, and come back to this place when you're older. And lay off the Lynx, you're trying too hard."
"You can really fuck off." The kid turns and stomps down the alley, getting a shoe full of freezing rainwater for his trouble. Jack bites the inside of his cheek so as not to laugh.
It's the first time he's wanted to laugh in days.
***
Paul's not the best field agent Jack's ever worked with, but they've got a good rapport. They've been sleeping together amiably for the last year, but Paul's heart is smitten with their new medic. Once Nia stops denying herself, the two of them are going to be inseparable. Nia's hot, Jack has to admit, with a high, tight arse and long legs to wrap around a man like ropes. He'd love being the filling in a Paul and Nia sandwich. He ought to cut out the middleman in their tiptoeing and seduce them both.
"Earth to Jack," Paul says, elbowing him. "We've got witnesses to Retcon, no scoping out the lovelies." He's mistaken Jack's contemplation for lust, and given what Jack was considering, it's a good guess.
"Jealous?"
"Crowded." Paul gave a deep faked sigh. "But fine. Go forth and enjoy yourself, and don't bring anything home you don't intend to feed and water for the next ten years." He blows a kiss to Jack as he waves him off.
Jack laughs, palming his bottle of Retcon. Witness duty annoys him. He ought to hire someone to be the crying shoulder and the warm cuppa that rids them of inconvenient news articles and internet speculations before they're written.
There are only three witnesses. Jack pretends to take their statements one by one, offering them beers at the local while he writes everything up. He has the first two bleary-eyed within twenty minutes, and suggests they head home, and to call him if they think of something else. He doesn't give them a number.
He turns his full attention on the third witness. "You haven't touched your drink."
"Neither have you."
Jack raises his eyebrows, then takes a sip of water. "Better?" Something bothers him about this witness, something more than the suspicion in the blue eyes. His hair's too long, his face too sharp.
"Sure." The witness takes one insouciant sip of his own.
"So what did you see, Mr ... ?"
"Jones. Ianto Jones."
"Spell that for me?" The guy does, watching him the whole time. "What did you see?"
"A big fucking monster with sharp teeth killed that guy your 'friend' carried off."
The kid's hand goes to the back of his neck and rubs. Jack's mental black book throws up a face without a name. It's been three years, and the kid might be that nineteen now. He's growing into his face and he's not bathing in cologne anymore, though he's still wearing something cheap. Jack's eyebrows go up again, and he pretends to write down the kid's story.
He has a stray thought of Paul. He puts a finger up to pause the kid mid-description and calls. Nia picks up. Jack rings off instead of saying hello. "Sorry, where were we?" He slides the kid's beer away, puts on his best smile, and touches the kid's arm, and he's going to have so much sex tonight.
The kid swears he's straight, even as his mouth devours Jack's. He's not into this stuff, he doesn't do guys, he says, his hand much more assured than last time. The cheap room Jack paid for in pound notes smells exactly like it should: a sleazy place where people fuck and leave. It's spring outside, but it's always late November in dives like this, with their long-dead cigarette smoke and the stale reek of semen. He's whispered the dirtiest things he can think of into the kid's ear, and no matter how straight he claims to be, Ianto Jones is pumping into his mouth like a pro as Jack sucks hard, and he's shouting in a very pretty voice as he comes down Jack's throat.
Jack's bright enough this time to give him a quick rest in the manky bed, to hand him the bottle he brought with them, even pretending to take a long pull before he watches that gorgeous throat gulp the rest greedily.
"I don't normally do this," Ianto says, and as he takes one more drink, there's that glassiness Jack's been wanting.
"It's easy. Watch." Jack takes his mouth again, forcing himself to tenderness, even as his dick, ignored, is hard as steel against his belly. He's got the sachet of lube ready.
"Wait ... "
"Easy." Jack presses him down to the mattress, feeling the muscles weighted down by the sedative. He doesn't want to fuck a sleeping man, so he hurries with his fingers, ignoring the whine in Ianto's throat as he thrusts two in at once. "Easy." When he has time, he takes time, but this is about blood spatters behind Jack's eyes, and the mental picture of Paul fucking Nia like dogs do.
He remembers the condom barely in time.
"Easy," says Jack like a prayer, and the kid is slick and tight around him, and so hot as he moans, eyes going shut. From pleasure, from tiredness, Jack will imagine it's the former as he thrusts fast and deep. "Push back against me."
The kid stays lax, letting Jack do the work and take his own enjoyment. Jack's eyes shut tight, and it doesn't matter whose body is under him, nothing matters but the firm heat and the tautness building fast in his balls. He could go like this all night. He could pop right now.
The kid's eyes are open again, though he's almost out and won't remember any of this, more's the pity, and he lets out a choked sob. Jack comes, howling.
When he's coherent again, the kid is dead asleep with Jack's softening cock still inside him. Jack pulls out, disposes of the condom, and then surveys the room. He ought to clean up the scene, dress the kid, and make it look like a binge. Or he can leave everything and make sure the kid thinks what happened is basically what happened, minus the aliens trying to kill him first. If the kid is still telling himself he's straight, he won't want to get those memories back anytime soon.
Jack likes this plan.
He probably shouldn't run into this guy again anytime soon, not chance the Retcon. "Go someplace," he says into a sleeping ear. "Get the hell out of Cardiff, go live your life." Maybe it'll take, maybe it won't.
When he gets back, and finds Paul and Nia wrapped naked around each other, he's not surprised.
***
Jack has to work to get into Ianto's pants this time around, taking almost a full week from the day he offers him the job to having him on his knees beside Tosh's workstation. Ianto's self-disgust after is apparent. It won't make an easy work environment for any of them. Fortunately, Jack has a backup plan, and offers him a laced drink of water.
"It helps wash out the taste. Go on."
He doesn't fuck Ianto again until months later, when the surly face he remembers has returned in force. Ianto's flat is practically bare, the slanted autumn light casting bleak shadows as they grapple on the floor. It starts out as a "No," and a "Fuck you," but he said yes to the soup Jack brought as a peace offering, and it doesn't take long for Ianto to stop resisting. He's awake enough to come on the cheap rug. He's sleepy enough to lay there as Jack looks around this crappy, empty space and suggests he fix it up. Jack goes for another turn after Ianto passes out, but it's not as much fun.
Ianto doesn't recall much about the cannibals. Owen thinks it's shock. Jack thinks he needs to plan more, if this is going to keep happening. He's one of the best lays who ever lived, and it's practically a crime that Ianto remains unaware of this.
"Come to me when you're ready to remember," he says into a barely-conscious shoulder.
***
It's a sweltering day, sweat pouring down anyone wearing more than a scrap of clothing. Jack's in his shirtsleeves. Ianto has left his jacket, and abandoned the waistcoat in the back of the SUV. He looks different without them, more dangerous. Jack likes the look, though not enough to have him like this all the time. Suits are sexy.
There's been an incident. If Jack had a quid for every time something was classified as "an incident" during his career with Torchwood, he'd be a very wealthy man. The "incident" has been cleaned up, cleared up, and shipped back off-world, and now there's the matter of eye-witnesses to deal with. Gwen's good at this, but Gwen and Rhys have escaped to Spain for a weekend.
"I'll take the two on the left, you take the half dozen on the right."
"Clearly that's a good idea."
Jack grins again, this time in mock apology for his mock plan, and there's a matching glimmer in Ianto's eyes that says he's going to be punished in an exciting manner later.
Jack's gaze passes over the crowd, and then stutters to a halt. Paul Dearborne is standing on a street in Cardiff, and he's watching Jack.
Ianto's not stupid. "Another ex?"
"Let me handle this one."
He strides up to the crowd with a shit-eating grin. "If you'll all come with me, I need to take your statements. We've got ice cold water ready while you wait." That's enough to catch their interest. Ianto is already at the SUV, distributing the prepared bottles.
Jack takes Paul's arm. "Let's start with you, sir. What's your name?"
"Harry Sharpe." He spells it, though Jack doesn't need the reminder.
"Mr. Sharpe, what brings you to Cardiff?" Paul's got a northern accent. It's an easy question.
"Business. My company is having a workshop at the St. David's."
"Lovely hotel." There's no recognition in Paul's eyes, nor even any interest. Jack's a little offended. "And what did you see?"
As Paul launches into details, Jack takes a doctored water bottle from Ianto and hands it to his old lover. He thanks him for his comments, and moves on to the next person. By the time they're finished, the crowd has dispersed with a group suggestion to find somewhere cool to sleep off the heat stroke. He makes himself not follow Paul back to his hotel.
Ianto waits until they're ready to go. "Are you going to tell me?"
"He's Torchwood, or was. When I took over the Cardiff branch, I put together a team of my own."
Ianto nods. He's seen most of the records. "They were all listed as deceased."
"His lover was killed. It was bad, really bad. After we locked her body away, he asked me for Retcon. I set him up with a new life. Toshiko started a few weeks later."
"That's the pension plan, isn't it? If you live long enough to leave, you get a handful of pills and a dossier." Tosh hadn't lived long enough. They'd postponed starting work on Owen's new life when he'd been fired, and then he'd died twice.
They drive in silence, Ianto knowing these roads by memory as much as Jack does. "Jack?"
"Yeah?"
"Did he really ask you?"
Paul pleaded not to lose his memories of Nia. "They're all I have left of her. Please, Jack!" Jack forced the first pill down. After that, Paul was pliable enough to take the rest without a single complaint. He'd been getting sloppy in his grief. Disloyal. Retcon was for the best, although for obvious reasons Paul would never be able to understand that.
Jack smiles. "He helped write up his new identity."
"Was he your lover?"
"For a while. Does that bother you?"
"No. I was just curious."
They drive back to Ianto's flat, because it's close. Jack likes this place, loves the thick carpet under his bare feet, loves the plush mattress cover and Egyptian cotton sheets, and the downy duvet. He adores the musky, subtle scent Ianto wears at his pulse point, adores how much better his kisses taste now he's given up smoking for good. Ianto's tight and hot and cuntwet with lube when Jack slicks himself and thrusts inside. He moves every muscle in time with Jack, and oh, Jack loves this best of all, loves the encouraging moans and the twists of Ianto's hips, and every trick Jack has taught him.
And if he does something wrong, or is angry with Jack, it's easy to erase an hour or two and give him a little push, a bit more instruction. Ianto trusts Jack completely. Jack loves that about him.
When they're done and spent, stickiness cleaned off and bodies close together in the bed, Ianto asks, "You ... you wouldn't ever Retcon me, would you? I think we ought to wipe Gwen and Rhys, let them escape this place intact, but it's too late for me." Jack fails to come up with something comforting. He's had the same thought. "But, you wouldn't do that to me, right?"
"Please, Jack," Paul begged, as Jack's hand clamped over his wrist. "God, how much have you already made me forget?"
"Enough."
"Of course not."
***
Title: Artefact 1973PX
Author: nancybrown
Characters/Pairings: Jack/Ianto, Ianto/Lisa
Rating: PG
Summary: There's an alien artefact for everything in the archives.
Prompt: coldwater1010, Ianto makes a wish, written for the tw_classic Ianto's birthday bash commentfic fest
***
If Ianto had tuppence for every item in the archives that included the description 'purpose and origin unknown,' he'd have, if not enough for a tidy pension, certainly sufficient funds for a decent holiday somewhere abroad. So was the joke he told himself, one of hundreds that lived only in his head, small stabs at coping with the little horrors of his daily life. The previous Torchwood Cardiff archivists had utilised any number of obscure storage systems. Jack claimed no less than four had succumbed fatally to their own filing errors but then Jack also claimed to have eaten dinosaurs, been pregnant, and shagged members of every known alien species. Ianto was certain at least some of those claims were false. Exaggerated, certainly. Hm.
As it was, much of his day was taken up by rearranging his predecessors' mistakes, without blowing himself up in the process. He suspected the original task had been assigned to scare the new guy, but it had allowed him freedom from observation. With Lisa's passing, the job was punishment. He did it anyway.
Today he was working on a set of artefacts recovered in the 1970s and left with next to no guidance as to their origin or usage. One or two had mysterious notes -- 'Ad'xtii tech per JH,' 'guidance system (?)' -- but the rest had his old nemesis 'purpose and origin unknown.' They were sorted, if such a word applied, by date and possibly by colour. No wonder the former archivists were dead.
As he hefted the next item for inspection, a purplish artefact about the size and weight of a beach ball, he muttered, "I wish I knew where to put all this."
Suddenly, Ianto quite clearly knew exactly where each item in the room ought to be stored, complete with humidity and temperature requirements, as well as safety precautions. The artefact in his hands should be kept warm, off the ground, and away from any radio-transmitting devices. Carefully, he arranged the space and stored the item, and the other artefacts. The task took him the rest of the day, making him late to make the dinner run and giving Owen another reason to berate him.
"What took you?" Jack asked, multiple questions in the one, and Ianto noticed the rest just as interested in the answer. Out of spite, he shrugged them off.
"Got wrapped up in the filing. Sorry. Will you be wanting Chinese, then?"
***
The events with the cannibals pushed all thoughts of filing out of his mind, assisted by the painkillers. Jack pushed most other thoughts from his mind, first with his renewed interest and later with his hands and his mouth and every smooth inch of his willing body. Ianto nearly forgot about the incident entirely, until he was faced with another room, this filled with artefacts from the 1930s.
'Purpose and origin unknown.' Fuckers. Also more notes with initials he knew couldn't be Jack's, and one note that could have been in Jack's own handwriting about a depleted power supply.
"Wish I knew what that meant."
He remembered.
It was stupid, and likely wouldn't work. He went to the room where he'd stored the artefact anyway. Feeling like a fool, Ianto put his hands on the purple ball. "I wish I knew why some of the notes seem to be from Jack. I also wish I knew how to file the 1934 artefacts."
Once he had correctly stored away the items, he felt a strong urge to look in the secure employee files. In theory, only the head of Torchwood could access those. In reality, Ianto had all Jack's passcodes because Jack was too lazy to retrieve his own files. Sure enough, the standard passcode worked.
Ianto read Jack's file, his real file.
Once again, unsure what to do with the information, he kept it to himself, and said not a word about it, not over coffee, not in a meeting, not in Jack's bed that same night. Almost not a word. When they were spent and panting, Jack's come on his belly, Jack's teeth resting against his throat, Ianto said, "Sometimes I think you're older than you look."
"Sometimes I think the same thing about you."
Ianto didn't try again, didn't say, "You can trust me," because they'd both know that for a lie.
***
Jack was dead on the floor, and they needed to open the Rift, needed to put everything back. Gwen said if the Rift opened, Rhys would come back, maybe they'd all come back, Jack would come back and Lisa too. And if they didn't, Ianto had another secret in the basement.
When Jack was dead again, he wandered down there, alone.
"Please," he said to the empty room. "Please," he said, holding the ball. "I wish."
Jack was still dead when he went back up to the morgue in dumb hope, and he didn't dare tell Gwen why he'd come to check.
He went to help Tosh with the Rift Manipulator.
***
When Jack was gone. Ianto was busy, they were all busy, 'busy' needed a new definition because they were all so fucking overworked it wasn't funny. Sometimes he went into the room where he'd stored the artefact, and he stared at it. What if it was what it appeared to be? What if it could be?
What if it wasn't?
What if he wished Jack back again, and Jack didn't come?
He didn't touch it. To be sure no-one else did, he marked it with a 'Not for Use' tag.
***
Only two days were missing from their memories, and despite every trick he tried, Ianto couldn't get Jack to confess he'd Retconned them but kept his own memories, so he was probably telling the truth as well. Pieces were gone. Part of Ianto wanted to know what had happened. Part of him shivered whenever he considered it, and knew this was for the best.
A change had come with his relationship with Jack. They'd restarted slowly, a few dates, a few nights together, but now they were headfirst into something neither one wanted to name. They spent more time in each other's company than not, work or leisure, and Ianto was frightened, and happy, and worried. He thought a lot about Lisa, and how good they'd been, how badly things had gone wrong.
He was alone, and a little drunk, and Jack would be looking for him soon. 'Not for Use' fell to the cold concrete.
"I wish I could see her again, one last time."
Lisa stood before him. Her smile was warm, she always had the best smiles. "Ianto."
"I miss you," he said. "I think I'm forgetting pieces of you. I think he's ... I think I'm ... "
She tiptoed closer, and placed a kiss at the edge of his mouth. Her lips felt real, she felt real. "It's all right. I don't mind."
He laughed, aching. "Are you just saying that because I want you to?"
She tapped him on the head playfully. "What do you think it means if you want me to say it?"
"Ianto?" That was Jack, outside the room. Ianto's heart leapt into his mouth. How could he possibly explain?
But Lisa was already gone.
***
It was his twenty-sixth birthday, and they were going to be too busy to do anything at all, including sleep. Without Owen and Tosh there, they were coping, but just as when Jack was gone, coping was relative, and Ianto had nearly run dry of bad jokes. He was running out of a lot of things, including birthdays.
He and Gwen never talked about it. There was nothing to say about the morbid countdown they'd started, wondering which one would die first.
The worst part, the part that robbed him of the little sleep he could edge out these days, was how badly Jack would take it, how he would blame himself, how he'd be alone. Ianto would spare Jack pain whenever possible, hated to watch him hurt, hated more to watch him die. On the rare nights they could curl up in each other's arms, Ianto listened to Jack's soft breath, soothed himself with the strong beat of his heart and the rise and fall of his lungs. No parent watching a sleeping infant was so intent.
He slipped away between missions, went down to the basement. He had to phrase it exactly right. That Jack would not be left alone for eternity. That if necessary, Ianto remain alive, young, and healthy enough to keep up with him for as long as he lived. That if not, Jack be allowed to die when he was ready.
"I wish," Ianto said.
And he lived happily ever after.
***
***
Title: The Little Things
Author: nancybrown
Characters/Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Rating: R (language)
Summary: The little things drive him crazy.
Prompt: rexluscus, nastiness/anger or jealousy
***
It's the little things that drive him bugshit.
Jack doesn't mind the way Ianto looks up to him whenever there's a problem, like Jack's the one who's gonna have the answers and save the day. It's the best part of being a Big Damn (Good-Looking) Superhero. He enjoys the attention, and the little thank yous that come when they're alone.
But he hates the accusing looks Ianto gives him whenever he comes back from the dead, as if Jack isn't completely fucking jealous of the fact that one day, Ianto will get to do this and it'll stick.
Bugshit.
***
Title: Game Day
Author: nancybrown
Characters: Andy, Rhys, Ianto
Rating: PG
Summary: Their regular table is ready.
Prompt: eldarwannabe, Andy, something happy with a Welsh character
***
Andy takes off his hat as he passes inside. The drizzle is cold but the pub is warm and comfortably loud, and he's off-duty. Their regular table is ready, not so close to the telly so they crane their necks, not so far they can't see or hear. The waitress has already sighted him and will bring him his first beer any moment.
Andy drops into his chair and lets out a sigh. "I miss anything?"
"Nah," says Rhys, eyes glued to the screen. "Match just started."
Ianto's texting with one hand, but he toasts Andy with his beer with the other. Something from work, then. Gwen and that big bloke hate being rugby widows when the matches are on, and find ways to annoy both of Andy's pals. Sometimes, he thinks as his beer arrives, it's nice to be single.
There's a good kick, and they shout at the screen together. It's also nice to have mates who get you.
***
Title: The Power of Soup
Author: nancybrown
Characters/Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Rating: PG
Summary: "Shoot me." "No."
Prompt: taffimai, Jack with a fever
***
"Shoot me."
"No."
"It's the fastest cure."
"Owen reckons antibiotics and a good night's rest will do the same thing and not make a mess."
"But I'm dying. I know what it feels like."
"More chills?"
"Just give me the gun. I'll clean up when I come around."
"Bloodstains don't come out of leather, and as it's my sofa you'd be ruining, the answer is still no."
"I could go into the bathroom."
"Eat your soup, Jack."
"It's cold."
"Then I'll reheat it. Don't commit suicide while I'm in the kitchen."
"You're sexy when you're cross."
"I see the delirium is back. We are not fooling around until you're no longer contagious."
"We should call into work to see if everything's okay. Or go in. I could rest there."
"Sit down, Jack. Everything is fine. Gwen will call if there's an issue. You're under orders from your doctor to rest. I'm under orders from Gwen to keep you out from underfoot while you do."
"But I'm bored."
"I rented us some DVDs from that shop you like. I asked the clerk to look up which ones you rented most."
"You did?"
"Check my bag. It's on the floor."
"Um."
"What?"
"Can I add a rule that what a guy happens to rent while his favourite personal assistant is in London for a meeting with the MoD should by no means be held against him later?"
"Check the bag. Soup's almost ready."
"These are all Gene Kelly films."
"You like Gene Kelly. You can say thank you by not taking this opportunity to go into any reminiscence of dating the man."
"I wouldn't say 'dated.'"
"Eat your soup."
"Eating. Thanks."
"You're welcome."
"No, I mean ... Thanks."
"I know what you meant. You're welcome."
***
Title: Belonging
Characters/Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Rating: PG
Summary: Another conversation on another rooftop on another rainy night.
Prompt: pearlseed, something romantic with Jack and Ianto, optional side of John Hart
***
Few things beat a Cardiff street on a late November night for chilly and blustery, but standing on a high rooftop -- without even the protection of the brick buildings surrounding him as they funnelled the cold, moist air like a wind tunnel down the back of his neck -- was on that list. The rain had stopped, which was a small mercy, leaving only puddles to splash into even up here, pooling in the hollows left by the uneven gravel surface.
"I can hear you walking, you know," Jack said, not looking back.
"I can hear you thinking, you know," Ianto replied, not joining him at the edge. His private war with vertigo was going to stay private.
"Hope you're kidding, otherwise I'm going to have to frisk you for alien pendants."
"You might start with checking around my neck."
"What fun would that be? Anyway, maybe you got a piercing or something you didn't tell me about." Ianto couldn't read much of Jack's expression from behind, but he could imagine the pretend-thoughtful one growing. "Actually, now that I bring it up ... "
"Let's pretend we already ran through the conversation and you finished with the story about the real Prince Albert."
Jack's head did turn then. "I told you about that?"
More than once, with expansive (and exaggerated) hand gestures, whilst they were catching a breath in between games, or curling together for a little sleep. Before the two thousand years. Before everything. Before Jack forgot so much. "You mentioned it."
"Oh. It's a great story."
"Yeah." He took a breath, and the cold air hurt his lungs. He'd done too much running these last few days. "I don't suppose you want to talk about it."
"Albert?"
"John." Ianto hadn't wanted to say his name, but someone had to break the glass. John Hart had come back yet again, and this time nobody had died, so that was practically a victory. But Jack's face had gone dark when John had wheedled him to join up for some good times, and Ianto could only stand so many shadows. "If you wanted to go off with him for a while, Gwen and I could hold things down here."
"You're kidding me."
"No, we're quite good at covering."
"Ianto." He'd turned around all the way now. Without the proper wind, his greatcoat no longer billowed around him as impressively, but wrapped around him in the wind like an old man's coat. "I'm not running off with him."
"I didn't think you'd go forever." Except for that he did, Ianto knew inside. Jack didn't belong here, bound to a small city on an insignificant planet long in his own past. Jack belonged out there with John, adventuring amongst the stars and perhaps keeping a tighter rein on his loony ex. "Just for a while," he lied, mostly to himself. "Get your head back."
"I'm not leaving."
"You want to."
"Sometimes."
Ianto didn't let the word faze him. He'd known, right? It was practically a relief to hear Jack say so. "So go."
Jack closed his eyes. Perhaps he had to scrape for a memory, perhaps he was just tired. "I belong here."
"On a rooftop in the dark in Cardiff?"
His eyes opened again, and Jack did a strange little sweep up and down. "Yeah. Apparently so." He took the few steps over to where Ianto stood away from the ledge, and took his hand. "That's where you are."
"I'd rather be anywhere else, and I'm from here."
"Not me," Jack said, and finally, there was a hint of a smile. He squeezed, and emphasised with the pressure, "I belong here."
Ianto frowned. Then Jack tugged him a little, reaching into his pocket. After a moment, tinny music floated up, no doubt from the speaker of his mobile, something old with too many trombones. He didn't resist as Jack started swaying with him, light dancing to music only Jack remembered.
"I belong here," Jack repeated, saying the words into Ianto's cheek, and finally, finally, he got it.
***
Title: Accomplice
Autho: nancybrown
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Characters: Irene, Mary
Rating: PG
Summary: Irene gets a partner.
Prompt: queenfanfiction, Sherlock/John/IreneAdler/MaryMorstan/Moriarty
***
Irene's a thief, a good one, or she'd be in prison by now, but not so good that she hasn't attracted unwanted attention. Lestrade's least favourite ASBO has been sniffing around asking questions Irene doesn't want answered.
Something should be done.
Her saviour comes quite unexpectedly, wearing a simple suit and last year's flats. "I'm Mary," the girl says breathlessly. "I've read all about you." Irene's open to flattery, but she's more open to an accomplice, witting or not. Someone can collect the last damning cheque whilst Irene herself takes her haul to Italy or Monaco.
"Charmed," she says, smiling.
***
Title: Will You Remember Me When I Go?
Author: nancybrown
Characters/Pairing: Jack/Ianto, Jack/OCs
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: dubcon/noncon, dark!Jack
Summary: Jack takes what he needs.
Prompt: From twclssckinkmeme: Coersion/manipulation. Jack has no qualms about retconning Ianto for his own selfish reasons, when the need arises.
AN: No, SERIOUSLY. Darkfic.
***
Jack is an open wound, throbbing and bleeding. It's Alex's blood he can't seem to wash off, and Trisha's, and Manuel's. He's been sticky with it, nearly bathing in it as he performed the lonely job of locking their bodies away in the vault. Not his blood, but he's bleeding.
He used to deal with this kind of horror with booze. His last sponsor died five years ago and he's due, but what if he misses his chance to see the Doctor because he's dying from alcohol poisoning again? He'll indulge other vices tonight, striding through the ever-fucking-present Cardiff rain. It's not cold enough to snow or sleet, just to pour this miserable winter wetness down on his head, soaking through the sanctity of his coat.
The club blasts warm air in his face, and the odour of men wearing too much cologne. The music throbs like his also ever-fucking-present pulse, like the life blood he can't seem to bleed out sufficiently. He hates this music, but he dances in the centre of the floor, grinding his crotch against one body after the other until he's wild and ready to pop.
Jack drags the closest body out into the cold, wet alley, protected from the rain by a dripping overhang. There's no time to talk, not with his tongue doing its damnedest to crawl down this guy's tonsils despite the nasty aftertaste of his last smoke. There's no room to think, not with both zips dropping to grasp hold of hot cocks. There's no space on his skin for tacky blood when a sticky shot of come covers his hand. He's still hard and ready, pushing the guy to face the filthy, damp wall.
The guy trembles, and the swirling mist that is Jack's brain right now throws up a sign that doesn't stay "Stop," but does suggest yielding.
"Not gonna fuck you unless you beg," Jack groans, biting the words into the guy's left ear.
"Don't," comes the reply, almost a plea itself, and that's not the voice of the twenty-something Jack had intended to pull.
Jack rolls him around again, takes in the face. "How old are you, kid?"
"Nineteen." It's a lie, not a thick one. The kid is seventeen, maybe eighteen, and doesn't have that broken face the boys that age do when they're whoring themselves for drugs or money. Jack can't stand that face. He's got higher standards, though not by much.
"First time in this club?" First time at all?
"Fuck you."
Jack spins him back against the wall. Death in his thoughts, he's of a mind to take what he wants. Instead he rubs his dick hard against the kid's backside for friction and clears his mind of the last time he fucked Trisha, the last time he shot semen onto Alex's belly. He grabs his cock to wank himself to climax, biting down on the kid's neck hard enough to draw blood and making a mess on his back.
Jack's the one trembling now, and the kid pushes him away, rubbing at the tooth marks. "Fucking vampire."
Jack grins as he puts himself away and redoes his trousers. There's a shocky look on the kid's face he doesn't like as the boy turns and does up his own flies. "You okay, kid?"
The hand keeps rubbing at his neck. It's a fidget. He's starting to freak out. "Jesus, what just happened?"
I used you, and in this light you're younger than I thought. Shit.
"Nothing much. Here." Jack digs into his coat pocket and pulls out a bottle. One white pill in his hand, and a comforting smile on his face. Normally he reserves this for the alien sightings, but since he wants to down a truckload of these himself and forget the twentieth century, he can't talk. "Aspirin. Sorry for the bite."
The kid looks at his hand, clearly doesn't believe Jack's bullshit story, and dry-swallows it anyway. He doesn't say thanks.
"You got a home?"
The kid half-shrugs, teenager-speak for "Yeah, what?" Jack's been the father of multiple teenagers and knows it well.
"Get inside out of the cold, and come back to this place when you're older. And lay off the Lynx, you're trying too hard."
"You can really fuck off." The kid turns and stomps down the alley, getting a shoe full of freezing rainwater for his trouble. Jack bites the inside of his cheek so as not to laugh.
It's the first time he's wanted to laugh in days.
***
Paul's not the best field agent Jack's ever worked with, but they've got a good rapport. They've been sleeping together amiably for the last year, but Paul's heart is smitten with their new medic. Once Nia stops denying herself, the two of them are going to be inseparable. Nia's hot, Jack has to admit, with a high, tight arse and long legs to wrap around a man like ropes. He'd love being the filling in a Paul and Nia sandwich. He ought to cut out the middleman in their tiptoeing and seduce them both.
"Earth to Jack," Paul says, elbowing him. "We've got witnesses to Retcon, no scoping out the lovelies." He's mistaken Jack's contemplation for lust, and given what Jack was considering, it's a good guess.
"Jealous?"
"Crowded." Paul gave a deep faked sigh. "But fine. Go forth and enjoy yourself, and don't bring anything home you don't intend to feed and water for the next ten years." He blows a kiss to Jack as he waves him off.
Jack laughs, palming his bottle of Retcon. Witness duty annoys him. He ought to hire someone to be the crying shoulder and the warm cuppa that rids them of inconvenient news articles and internet speculations before they're written.
There are only three witnesses. Jack pretends to take their statements one by one, offering them beers at the local while he writes everything up. He has the first two bleary-eyed within twenty minutes, and suggests they head home, and to call him if they think of something else. He doesn't give them a number.
He turns his full attention on the third witness. "You haven't touched your drink."
"Neither have you."
Jack raises his eyebrows, then takes a sip of water. "Better?" Something bothers him about this witness, something more than the suspicion in the blue eyes. His hair's too long, his face too sharp.
"Sure." The witness takes one insouciant sip of his own.
"So what did you see, Mr ... ?"
"Jones. Ianto Jones."
"Spell that for me?" The guy does, watching him the whole time. "What did you see?"
"A big fucking monster with sharp teeth killed that guy your 'friend' carried off."
The kid's hand goes to the back of his neck and rubs. Jack's mental black book throws up a face without a name. It's been three years, and the kid might be that nineteen now. He's growing into his face and he's not bathing in cologne anymore, though he's still wearing something cheap. Jack's eyebrows go up again, and he pretends to write down the kid's story.
He has a stray thought of Paul. He puts a finger up to pause the kid mid-description and calls. Nia picks up. Jack rings off instead of saying hello. "Sorry, where were we?" He slides the kid's beer away, puts on his best smile, and touches the kid's arm, and he's going to have so much sex tonight.
The kid swears he's straight, even as his mouth devours Jack's. He's not into this stuff, he doesn't do guys, he says, his hand much more assured than last time. The cheap room Jack paid for in pound notes smells exactly like it should: a sleazy place where people fuck and leave. It's spring outside, but it's always late November in dives like this, with their long-dead cigarette smoke and the stale reek of semen. He's whispered the dirtiest things he can think of into the kid's ear, and no matter how straight he claims to be, Ianto Jones is pumping into his mouth like a pro as Jack sucks hard, and he's shouting in a very pretty voice as he comes down Jack's throat.
Jack's bright enough this time to give him a quick rest in the manky bed, to hand him the bottle he brought with them, even pretending to take a long pull before he watches that gorgeous throat gulp the rest greedily.
"I don't normally do this," Ianto says, and as he takes one more drink, there's that glassiness Jack's been wanting.
"It's easy. Watch." Jack takes his mouth again, forcing himself to tenderness, even as his dick, ignored, is hard as steel against his belly. He's got the sachet of lube ready.
"Wait ... "
"Easy." Jack presses him down to the mattress, feeling the muscles weighted down by the sedative. He doesn't want to fuck a sleeping man, so he hurries with his fingers, ignoring the whine in Ianto's throat as he thrusts two in at once. "Easy." When he has time, he takes time, but this is about blood spatters behind Jack's eyes, and the mental picture of Paul fucking Nia like dogs do.
He remembers the condom barely in time.
"Easy," says Jack like a prayer, and the kid is slick and tight around him, and so hot as he moans, eyes going shut. From pleasure, from tiredness, Jack will imagine it's the former as he thrusts fast and deep. "Push back against me."
The kid stays lax, letting Jack do the work and take his own enjoyment. Jack's eyes shut tight, and it doesn't matter whose body is under him, nothing matters but the firm heat and the tautness building fast in his balls. He could go like this all night. He could pop right now.
The kid's eyes are open again, though he's almost out and won't remember any of this, more's the pity, and he lets out a choked sob. Jack comes, howling.
When he's coherent again, the kid is dead asleep with Jack's softening cock still inside him. Jack pulls out, disposes of the condom, and then surveys the room. He ought to clean up the scene, dress the kid, and make it look like a binge. Or he can leave everything and make sure the kid thinks what happened is basically what happened, minus the aliens trying to kill him first. If the kid is still telling himself he's straight, he won't want to get those memories back anytime soon.
Jack likes this plan.
He probably shouldn't run into this guy again anytime soon, not chance the Retcon. "Go someplace," he says into a sleeping ear. "Get the hell out of Cardiff, go live your life." Maybe it'll take, maybe it won't.
When he gets back, and finds Paul and Nia wrapped naked around each other, he's not surprised.
***
Jack has to work to get into Ianto's pants this time around, taking almost a full week from the day he offers him the job to having him on his knees beside Tosh's workstation. Ianto's self-disgust after is apparent. It won't make an easy work environment for any of them. Fortunately, Jack has a backup plan, and offers him a laced drink of water.
"It helps wash out the taste. Go on."
He doesn't fuck Ianto again until months later, when the surly face he remembers has returned in force. Ianto's flat is practically bare, the slanted autumn light casting bleak shadows as they grapple on the floor. It starts out as a "No," and a "Fuck you," but he said yes to the soup Jack brought as a peace offering, and it doesn't take long for Ianto to stop resisting. He's awake enough to come on the cheap rug. He's sleepy enough to lay there as Jack looks around this crappy, empty space and suggests he fix it up. Jack goes for another turn after Ianto passes out, but it's not as much fun.
Ianto doesn't recall much about the cannibals. Owen thinks it's shock. Jack thinks he needs to plan more, if this is going to keep happening. He's one of the best lays who ever lived, and it's practically a crime that Ianto remains unaware of this.
"Come to me when you're ready to remember," he says into a barely-conscious shoulder.
***
It's a sweltering day, sweat pouring down anyone wearing more than a scrap of clothing. Jack's in his shirtsleeves. Ianto has left his jacket, and abandoned the waistcoat in the back of the SUV. He looks different without them, more dangerous. Jack likes the look, though not enough to have him like this all the time. Suits are sexy.
There's been an incident. If Jack had a quid for every time something was classified as "an incident" during his career with Torchwood, he'd be a very wealthy man. The "incident" has been cleaned up, cleared up, and shipped back off-world, and now there's the matter of eye-witnesses to deal with. Gwen's good at this, but Gwen and Rhys have escaped to Spain for a weekend.
"I'll take the two on the left, you take the half dozen on the right."
"Clearly that's a good idea."
Jack grins again, this time in mock apology for his mock plan, and there's a matching glimmer in Ianto's eyes that says he's going to be punished in an exciting manner later.
Jack's gaze passes over the crowd, and then stutters to a halt. Paul Dearborne is standing on a street in Cardiff, and he's watching Jack.
Ianto's not stupid. "Another ex?"
"Let me handle this one."
He strides up to the crowd with a shit-eating grin. "If you'll all come with me, I need to take your statements. We've got ice cold water ready while you wait." That's enough to catch their interest. Ianto is already at the SUV, distributing the prepared bottles.
Jack takes Paul's arm. "Let's start with you, sir. What's your name?"
"Harry Sharpe." He spells it, though Jack doesn't need the reminder.
"Mr. Sharpe, what brings you to Cardiff?" Paul's got a northern accent. It's an easy question.
"Business. My company is having a workshop at the St. David's."
"Lovely hotel." There's no recognition in Paul's eyes, nor even any interest. Jack's a little offended. "And what did you see?"
As Paul launches into details, Jack takes a doctored water bottle from Ianto and hands it to his old lover. He thanks him for his comments, and moves on to the next person. By the time they're finished, the crowd has dispersed with a group suggestion to find somewhere cool to sleep off the heat stroke. He makes himself not follow Paul back to his hotel.
Ianto waits until they're ready to go. "Are you going to tell me?"
"He's Torchwood, or was. When I took over the Cardiff branch, I put together a team of my own."
Ianto nods. He's seen most of the records. "They were all listed as deceased."
"His lover was killed. It was bad, really bad. After we locked her body away, he asked me for Retcon. I set him up with a new life. Toshiko started a few weeks later."
"That's the pension plan, isn't it? If you live long enough to leave, you get a handful of pills and a dossier." Tosh hadn't lived long enough. They'd postponed starting work on Owen's new life when he'd been fired, and then he'd died twice.
They drive in silence, Ianto knowing these roads by memory as much as Jack does. "Jack?"
"Yeah?"
"Did he really ask you?"
Paul pleaded not to lose his memories of Nia. "They're all I have left of her. Please, Jack!" Jack forced the first pill down. After that, Paul was pliable enough to take the rest without a single complaint. He'd been getting sloppy in his grief. Disloyal. Retcon was for the best, although for obvious reasons Paul would never be able to understand that.
Jack smiles. "He helped write up his new identity."
"Was he your lover?"
"For a while. Does that bother you?"
"No. I was just curious."
They drive back to Ianto's flat, because it's close. Jack likes this place, loves the thick carpet under his bare feet, loves the plush mattress cover and Egyptian cotton sheets, and the downy duvet. He adores the musky, subtle scent Ianto wears at his pulse point, adores how much better his kisses taste now he's given up smoking for good. Ianto's tight and hot and cuntwet with lube when Jack slicks himself and thrusts inside. He moves every muscle in time with Jack, and oh, Jack loves this best of all, loves the encouraging moans and the twists of Ianto's hips, and every trick Jack has taught him.
And if he does something wrong, or is angry with Jack, it's easy to erase an hour or two and give him a little push, a bit more instruction. Ianto trusts Jack completely. Jack loves that about him.
When they're done and spent, stickiness cleaned off and bodies close together in the bed, Ianto asks, "You ... you wouldn't ever Retcon me, would you? I think we ought to wipe Gwen and Rhys, let them escape this place intact, but it's too late for me." Jack fails to come up with something comforting. He's had the same thought. "But, you wouldn't do that to me, right?"
"Please, Jack," Paul begged, as Jack's hand clamped over his wrist. "God, how much have you already made me forget?"
"Enough."
"Of course not."
***
Title: Artefact 1973PX
Author: nancybrown
Characters/Pairings: Jack/Ianto, Ianto/Lisa
Rating: PG
Summary: There's an alien artefact for everything in the archives.
Prompt: coldwater1010, Ianto makes a wish, written for the tw_classic Ianto's birthday bash commentfic fest
***
If Ianto had tuppence for every item in the archives that included the description 'purpose and origin unknown,' he'd have, if not enough for a tidy pension, certainly sufficient funds for a decent holiday somewhere abroad. So was the joke he told himself, one of hundreds that lived only in his head, small stabs at coping with the little horrors of his daily life. The previous Torchwood Cardiff archivists had utilised any number of obscure storage systems. Jack claimed no less than four had succumbed fatally to their own filing errors but then Jack also claimed to have eaten dinosaurs, been pregnant, and shagged members of every known alien species. Ianto was certain at least some of those claims were false. Exaggerated, certainly. Hm.
As it was, much of his day was taken up by rearranging his predecessors' mistakes, without blowing himself up in the process. He suspected the original task had been assigned to scare the new guy, but it had allowed him freedom from observation. With Lisa's passing, the job was punishment. He did it anyway.
Today he was working on a set of artefacts recovered in the 1970s and left with next to no guidance as to their origin or usage. One or two had mysterious notes -- 'Ad'xtii tech per JH,' 'guidance system (?)' -- but the rest had his old nemesis 'purpose and origin unknown.' They were sorted, if such a word applied, by date and possibly by colour. No wonder the former archivists were dead.
As he hefted the next item for inspection, a purplish artefact about the size and weight of a beach ball, he muttered, "I wish I knew where to put all this."
Suddenly, Ianto quite clearly knew exactly where each item in the room ought to be stored, complete with humidity and temperature requirements, as well as safety precautions. The artefact in his hands should be kept warm, off the ground, and away from any radio-transmitting devices. Carefully, he arranged the space and stored the item, and the other artefacts. The task took him the rest of the day, making him late to make the dinner run and giving Owen another reason to berate him.
"What took you?" Jack asked, multiple questions in the one, and Ianto noticed the rest just as interested in the answer. Out of spite, he shrugged them off.
"Got wrapped up in the filing. Sorry. Will you be wanting Chinese, then?"
***
The events with the cannibals pushed all thoughts of filing out of his mind, assisted by the painkillers. Jack pushed most other thoughts from his mind, first with his renewed interest and later with his hands and his mouth and every smooth inch of his willing body. Ianto nearly forgot about the incident entirely, until he was faced with another room, this filled with artefacts from the 1930s.
'Purpose and origin unknown.' Fuckers. Also more notes with initials he knew couldn't be Jack's, and one note that could have been in Jack's own handwriting about a depleted power supply.
"Wish I knew what that meant."
He remembered.
It was stupid, and likely wouldn't work. He went to the room where he'd stored the artefact anyway. Feeling like a fool, Ianto put his hands on the purple ball. "I wish I knew why some of the notes seem to be from Jack. I also wish I knew how to file the 1934 artefacts."
Once he had correctly stored away the items, he felt a strong urge to look in the secure employee files. In theory, only the head of Torchwood could access those. In reality, Ianto had all Jack's passcodes because Jack was too lazy to retrieve his own files. Sure enough, the standard passcode worked.
Ianto read Jack's file, his real file.
Once again, unsure what to do with the information, he kept it to himself, and said not a word about it, not over coffee, not in a meeting, not in Jack's bed that same night. Almost not a word. When they were spent and panting, Jack's come on his belly, Jack's teeth resting against his throat, Ianto said, "Sometimes I think you're older than you look."
"Sometimes I think the same thing about you."
Ianto didn't try again, didn't say, "You can trust me," because they'd both know that for a lie.
***
Jack was dead on the floor, and they needed to open the Rift, needed to put everything back. Gwen said if the Rift opened, Rhys would come back, maybe they'd all come back, Jack would come back and Lisa too. And if they didn't, Ianto had another secret in the basement.
When Jack was dead again, he wandered down there, alone.
"Please," he said to the empty room. "Please," he said, holding the ball. "I wish."
Jack was still dead when he went back up to the morgue in dumb hope, and he didn't dare tell Gwen why he'd come to check.
He went to help Tosh with the Rift Manipulator.
***
When Jack was gone. Ianto was busy, they were all busy, 'busy' needed a new definition because they were all so fucking overworked it wasn't funny. Sometimes he went into the room where he'd stored the artefact, and he stared at it. What if it was what it appeared to be? What if it could be?
What if it wasn't?
What if he wished Jack back again, and Jack didn't come?
He didn't touch it. To be sure no-one else did, he marked it with a 'Not for Use' tag.
***
Only two days were missing from their memories, and despite every trick he tried, Ianto couldn't get Jack to confess he'd Retconned them but kept his own memories, so he was probably telling the truth as well. Pieces were gone. Part of Ianto wanted to know what had happened. Part of him shivered whenever he considered it, and knew this was for the best.
A change had come with his relationship with Jack. They'd restarted slowly, a few dates, a few nights together, but now they were headfirst into something neither one wanted to name. They spent more time in each other's company than not, work or leisure, and Ianto was frightened, and happy, and worried. He thought a lot about Lisa, and how good they'd been, how badly things had gone wrong.
He was alone, and a little drunk, and Jack would be looking for him soon. 'Not for Use' fell to the cold concrete.
"I wish I could see her again, one last time."
Lisa stood before him. Her smile was warm, she always had the best smiles. "Ianto."
"I miss you," he said. "I think I'm forgetting pieces of you. I think he's ... I think I'm ... "
She tiptoed closer, and placed a kiss at the edge of his mouth. Her lips felt real, she felt real. "It's all right. I don't mind."
He laughed, aching. "Are you just saying that because I want you to?"
She tapped him on the head playfully. "What do you think it means if you want me to say it?"
"Ianto?" That was Jack, outside the room. Ianto's heart leapt into his mouth. How could he possibly explain?
But Lisa was already gone.
***
It was his twenty-sixth birthday, and they were going to be too busy to do anything at all, including sleep. Without Owen and Tosh there, they were coping, but just as when Jack was gone, coping was relative, and Ianto had nearly run dry of bad jokes. He was running out of a lot of things, including birthdays.
He and Gwen never talked about it. There was nothing to say about the morbid countdown they'd started, wondering which one would die first.
The worst part, the part that robbed him of the little sleep he could edge out these days, was how badly Jack would take it, how he would blame himself, how he'd be alone. Ianto would spare Jack pain whenever possible, hated to watch him hurt, hated more to watch him die. On the rare nights they could curl up in each other's arms, Ianto listened to Jack's soft breath, soothed himself with the strong beat of his heart and the rise and fall of his lungs. No parent watching a sleeping infant was so intent.
He slipped away between missions, went down to the basement. He had to phrase it exactly right. That Jack would not be left alone for eternity. That if necessary, Ianto remain alive, young, and healthy enough to keep up with him for as long as he lived. That if not, Jack be allowed to die when he was ready.
"I wish," Ianto said.
And he lived happily ever after.
***