I brought you here to heal you (Jack, Ianto; PG)
Title: I brought you here to heal you (1/2)
Author: etharei
Rating: PG
Timeline: after "Greeks Giving Gifts" (107)
Spoilers: "Cyberwoman" (104), "Countrycide" (106), "Greeks Giving Gifts" (107)
Summary: Jack dead. He’d imagined it before, even with himself holding the smoking gun.
Author's Notes: Getting... there.... Yes, I have the next part of this. In my head. Alas, that I have only one pair of hands. Title lifted straight out of "Cyberwoman".
Disclaimer: Torchwood and all the characters and situations featured therein are the property of Russell T. Davies, the BBC and their affiliates. I’m only borrowing them for purely non-profit, recreational purposes.
Written for: horizonssing, Day #18.
If I Didn’t Care
Ink Spots
If I didn't care more than words can say
If I didn't care would I feel this way?
If this isn't love then why do I thrill?
And what makes my head go 'round and 'round
While my heart stands still?
If I didn't care would it be the same?
Would my ev'ry prayer begin and end with just your name?
And would I be sure that this is love beyond compare?
Would all this be true if I didn't care for you?
I brought you here to heal you
by Etharei
In the gloom, Ianto can just about make out the distinctive outline of Jack’s coat. He sees Jack point towards the wall, and obediently flattens himself against it. They stalk further into the dark alley, careful to not make any noise. The gun is an unfamiliar shape and weight in Ianto’s hand; rather than take comfort from it, he’s blocking off the private visions of accidentally putting a bullet in one of the others, if not his own foot.
He’s not entirely sure what he’s doing out here, on active field duty with the team, especially after the investigation at Brecon Beacons went so very wrong. Once, he’d have wondered if Jack is purposefully trying to get him killed, to save the paperwork of a formal execution or intensive Retconning, but Ianto’s gotten tired of such dark cynicism, and Jack surely wouldn’t endanger himself and the others, nor put a live weapon in Ianto’s hand if he didn’t trust him to some degree. The Captain must have noticed the return of the dark circles under Ianto’s eyes in the days following the incident with Mary.
Jack’s lenience towards Tosh had highlighted the man’s utter disregard of institutional regulations and protocol. Of course, Ianto should have realized it earlier, particularly at the recruitment of Gwen, but he’d had... other things on his mind.
Ianto likes rules. They make things easier to categorize, to understand, to predict. They make the world... neat. Such a mindset had made him ideal for Torchwood One.
A discreet beep comes from Jack’s wrist strap. The two of them instinctively freeze, but after a moment Jack cautiously puts his head around the corner. He signals that it’s clear, and they turn down an adjacent alleyway.
Well, Torchwood One is rubble and ash. Except the piece of it that Ianto’s been carrying around, both in Lisa and inside his head, which he hadn’t known about until he’d felt the flash of anger when Jack informed him that he would be returning to work.
Jack seemed to have expected the anger. Do you want me to kill you? Retcon you? His face had been… odd. Solemn and authoritative, but also as if he was... bracing for something.
It was, of course, utterly irrational that Ianto would want to die, or lose his memories. Except those were the rules. His face must have shown his confusion; unexpectedly, Jack had brightened up.
Ianto has always believed that no man should be above the rules, nor have the power to change or ignore them to his liking.
As if he’s not flawed enough, apparently he can’t even follow his own principles.
Jack had patted him on the arm, smiling that infuriatingly mysterious smile, and said, “There’s hope for you yet.”
A crashing noise behind him snatches Ianto from his thoughts. He spins around, gun coming up. There’s a glimpse of stick-thin legs, many stick-thin legs, a lean body, an eyeless head-
“Ianto!” screams Jack, loud enough to leave Ianto’s ears ringing, as he numbly watches a dark shape leap in front of him, knocking him back. Another scream, this time wordless, and Jack falls to his knees. White-blue sparks erupt all over his body, like many miniature lightning bolts. The alien is pointing some sort of weapon at him. Jack arcs backwards, teeth bared in a stiff grimace, barely muffling the sounds of pain.
Ianto stumbles back, eyes fixed on Jack. I’ll watch you suffer and die.
Jack dead. He’s imagined it before, even with himself holding the smoking gun. But envisioning a motionless body is a world away from the reality of loss - no Jack in the office waiting for the morning coffee, no Jack stalking around the Hub at random hours, no Jack buying a box of assorted chocolates for them to spend a Sunday morning “investigating which one the pterodactyl liked best”. Even Lisa, as much as it tears something inside for him to admit it... she hadn’t been part of his daily life, the life outside of his head, outside the secret shadows, in so very long.
He’s back in the countryside again. In that house of horrors, pain and death looming before him, and helpless because he doesn’t know what the hell to do.
Damn, damn, damn Jack. Common sense says that Jack should have let the alien focus on Ianto, since Jack is the leader and the one who knows how to deal with this while Ianto is just the traitorous, useless pawn.
But of course, Jack never follows the rules.
Ianto taps his earpiece, barks their coordinates to Gwen and Owen, wherever they are. He takes the safety off his gun, cocks it, and leaps out of the shield of Jack’s body, runs shouting, shooting-
A sharp jolt, like a million needles all at once. He hears his voice, a distant ululation of pain, skin scraping a gritty surface. Then, a more immediate bodily pain. A voice in the distance, voices, some too near and one far away.
The world fades in and out, slows, a film when the projector is failing. A heartbeat for every frame. Hands, familiar. Pressure on his silent chest.
Why Jack, I didn’t know you cared.
No idea if the words get to his mouth. Best not, probably, since Jack sometimes takes these things too seriously.
One last frame: wide blue eyes boring into him, impossibly old.
Then everything stops; dark falls on the theatre.
Author: etharei
Rating: PG
Timeline: after "Greeks Giving Gifts" (107)
Spoilers: "Cyberwoman" (104), "Countrycide" (106), "Greeks Giving Gifts" (107)
Summary: Jack dead. He’d imagined it before, even with himself holding the smoking gun.
Author's Notes: Getting... there.... Yes, I have the next part of this. In my head. Alas, that I have only one pair of hands. Title lifted straight out of "Cyberwoman".
Disclaimer: Torchwood and all the characters and situations featured therein are the property of Russell T. Davies, the BBC and their affiliates. I’m only borrowing them for purely non-profit, recreational purposes.
Written for: horizonssing, Day #18.
If I Didn’t Care
Ink Spots
If I didn't care more than words can say
If I didn't care would I feel this way?
If this isn't love then why do I thrill?
And what makes my head go 'round and 'round
While my heart stands still?
If I didn't care would it be the same?
Would my ev'ry prayer begin and end with just your name?
And would I be sure that this is love beyond compare?
Would all this be true if I didn't care for you?
I brought you here to heal you
by Etharei
In the gloom, Ianto can just about make out the distinctive outline of Jack’s coat. He sees Jack point towards the wall, and obediently flattens himself against it. They stalk further into the dark alley, careful to not make any noise. The gun is an unfamiliar shape and weight in Ianto’s hand; rather than take comfort from it, he’s blocking off the private visions of accidentally putting a bullet in one of the others, if not his own foot.
He’s not entirely sure what he’s doing out here, on active field duty with the team, especially after the investigation at Brecon Beacons went so very wrong. Once, he’d have wondered if Jack is purposefully trying to get him killed, to save the paperwork of a formal execution or intensive Retconning, but Ianto’s gotten tired of such dark cynicism, and Jack surely wouldn’t endanger himself and the others, nor put a live weapon in Ianto’s hand if he didn’t trust him to some degree. The Captain must have noticed the return of the dark circles under Ianto’s eyes in the days following the incident with Mary.
Jack’s lenience towards Tosh had highlighted the man’s utter disregard of institutional regulations and protocol. Of course, Ianto should have realized it earlier, particularly at the recruitment of Gwen, but he’d had... other things on his mind.
Ianto likes rules. They make things easier to categorize, to understand, to predict. They make the world... neat. Such a mindset had made him ideal for Torchwood One.
A discreet beep comes from Jack’s wrist strap. The two of them instinctively freeze, but after a moment Jack cautiously puts his head around the corner. He signals that it’s clear, and they turn down an adjacent alleyway.
Well, Torchwood One is rubble and ash. Except the piece of it that Ianto’s been carrying around, both in Lisa and inside his head, which he hadn’t known about until he’d felt the flash of anger when Jack informed him that he would be returning to work.
Jack seemed to have expected the anger. Do you want me to kill you? Retcon you? His face had been… odd. Solemn and authoritative, but also as if he was... bracing for something.
It was, of course, utterly irrational that Ianto would want to die, or lose his memories. Except those were the rules. His face must have shown his confusion; unexpectedly, Jack had brightened up.
Ianto has always believed that no man should be above the rules, nor have the power to change or ignore them to his liking.
As if he’s not flawed enough, apparently he can’t even follow his own principles.
Jack had patted him on the arm, smiling that infuriatingly mysterious smile, and said, “There’s hope for you yet.”
A crashing noise behind him snatches Ianto from his thoughts. He spins around, gun coming up. There’s a glimpse of stick-thin legs, many stick-thin legs, a lean body, an eyeless head-
“Ianto!” screams Jack, loud enough to leave Ianto’s ears ringing, as he numbly watches a dark shape leap in front of him, knocking him back. Another scream, this time wordless, and Jack falls to his knees. White-blue sparks erupt all over his body, like many miniature lightning bolts. The alien is pointing some sort of weapon at him. Jack arcs backwards, teeth bared in a stiff grimace, barely muffling the sounds of pain.
Ianto stumbles back, eyes fixed on Jack. I’ll watch you suffer and die.
Jack dead. He’s imagined it before, even with himself holding the smoking gun. But envisioning a motionless body is a world away from the reality of loss - no Jack in the office waiting for the morning coffee, no Jack stalking around the Hub at random hours, no Jack buying a box of assorted chocolates for them to spend a Sunday morning “investigating which one the pterodactyl liked best”. Even Lisa, as much as it tears something inside for him to admit it... she hadn’t been part of his daily life, the life outside of his head, outside the secret shadows, in so very long.
He’s back in the countryside again. In that house of horrors, pain and death looming before him, and helpless because he doesn’t know what the hell to do.
Damn, damn, damn Jack. Common sense says that Jack should have let the alien focus on Ianto, since Jack is the leader and the one who knows how to deal with this while Ianto is just the traitorous, useless pawn.
But of course, Jack never follows the rules.
Ianto taps his earpiece, barks their coordinates to Gwen and Owen, wherever they are. He takes the safety off his gun, cocks it, and leaps out of the shield of Jack’s body, runs shouting, shooting-
A sharp jolt, like a million needles all at once. He hears his voice, a distant ululation of pain, skin scraping a gritty surface. Then, a more immediate bodily pain. A voice in the distance, voices, some too near and one far away.
The world fades in and out, slows, a film when the projector is failing. A heartbeat for every frame. Hands, familiar. Pressure on his silent chest.
Why Jack, I didn’t know you cared.
No idea if the words get to his mouth. Best not, probably, since Jack sometimes takes these things too seriously.
One last frame: wide blue eyes boring into him, impossibly old.
Then everything stops; dark falls on the theatre.