Fic: On Atlas' Shoulders, Jack/Ianto
Title: On Atlas' Shoulders
Author: sarcasticchick
Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: S2 Epi 4 "Meat", and various epis in between S1 Epi 1 and S2 Epi 4 :)
Beta: lilithilien
Summary: What cost victory?
Word Count: ~3000
A/N: Missing scene for "Meat." Idea struck me while writing the last of SoI and would -not- leave me alone.
"Take it."
Ianto looked at the glass of whisky glowing golden amber pure in Jack's finest crystal as his jaw worked around a denial which contained a mighty to-do list: cancelling the plankton order, laundering his coat which had suffered the most grievous insult of alien guts upon its crisp, coal-black surface, creating a cover story for Rhys' injury, hiring cleaners for the abattoir, checking in on all the prats who'd caused all the trouble, double checking the incinerator project and Retconning the workers as well. And last but not least, discarding the latest pizza boxes he was certain still rested where the team had left them during the lunch hours earlier, collecting the coffee mugs rimmed a perfect roasted brown and burning the remnants of the alien located in the Hub.
Lunch. But it wasn't yet five. Too early to go home, too early to call it a day when he needed to take care of so many things. And far too early to begin drinking. Drinking led to talking which led to thinking, and at this point, Ianto couldn't be arsed to think about anything.
He couldn't.
Gwen had run off with Rhys, a Retcon pill tucked in her back pocket, not the first time she'd ever drugged her fiance with the potent drug, certainly not the last. He knew, he always knew, it was his responsibility to know. He knew of the first time, that betrayal she thought she'd so carefully hidden behind three-Italian cheese pizza topped with pineapple and pepperoni. Ianto had checked in on Rhys later, made sure there were no problems as with Suzie and Max, but Rhys appeared fully functional, no signs of remembering or a recognizable trigger. He couldn't blame Gwen, not really. Not to say he didn't want to, because fuck if he didn't want to dig deep into the darkness surrounding his life and just for an instant revel in disgusting hatred for her selfish actions, for loving Jack, for expressing so freely the spirit of life Ianto craved.
But they were all broken, each and every one of them. Gwen, selfishly clinging to a life devoid of Torchwood; Tosh, ever searching for someone to recognize her for the beauty she was, not the shadow she reflected; Owen, ever fearing the connection he so desperately craved; and Jack, whom Ianto believed more broken then all combined but who buried it neatly between passed years and casual shags, half-hearted attempts at living while greedily consuming death like a high which took far more than it gave.
Ianto wondered what it was like, though he rather believed he knew. Death wasn't a stranger, always knocking, always begging entrance to steal his soul. It came and went, sometimes beautiful, sometimes cruel, stripping him bare a layer at a time until only the most tender of rings circled his heart, deflecting passing attempts of mimicked love and false belonging.
The whisky swirled real, however, the growing concerned frown stretching Jack's lips leading Ianto to believe he'd hesitated just long enough to invite questions. Questions, and quite possibly demands, all summing equal to purposefully directed thought and that was what he most wished to bury beneath lists and routine. Feed Myfanwy. Take out the rubbish. Run vinegar through the coffee machine, followed by no less than three baths of clean water. Wash the mugs. Complete the paperwork. Requisition new disposable aprons for Owen; the green had been a lovely, most obnoxious shade against his pale skin. Or perhaps pink next time. Run a hack on the national CCTV footage to erase Torchwood SUV movement through the city. Laundry, he mustn't forget to take his great coat to the launderette.
"Ianto."
His name spoken so clearly, so neatly veiled with webs of threat, or maybe it was concern. Ianto couldn't tell, never could with Jack, who always spoke in tone upon tone of complex foreign experience breathed in a whispered kiss of sound. It was simple and low, yet Ianto knew the volumes Jack intended and expected him to understand. Their conversations were always like this, meaning buried within innuendo and awareness, a constant judgment of cataloged fact balanced by assumed human nature. Jack pretended he understood, and Ianto replied in equal farce. They danced around everything and rarely spoke of anything, though sometimes, sometimes the words meant what they were defined as, blunt shards of self laid bare for the brief glimpse into who they truly were. \Who they were beneath suits and waistcoats and modern briefs.
Creatures of habit, creatures of pain, creatures of love and tortured life.
Sounded familiar, only they were drugged by possibility and chained by self-created shackles, guilt and remorse as heavy as any steel. There was no one to fight, no bad guys to blame, no warehouses to flee. Just meat cleavers and metal hooks stabbing patterned dots to outline their frames, bleeding them as cleanly as any young deer with a blade to its throat, spilling hope and faith with each heart beat.
Been there, bled that. Funny, how that was truly a metaphor for Torchwood. Pieces of veal, dying young to feed those rich enough in life to enjoy it.
With a sigh, Ianto took the proffered glass, noting that Jack hadn't poured one for himself or any of the others working away at their computers and piddling with their doohickeys and numbers, grappling for the meaning of life within the confines of alien tech. It was a fruitless task; Ianto had tried. Within Torchwood One, within the dank cellars of Torchwood Three, within his continued existence, scrabbling to regain some semblance of traction as love slipped past like silk through his fingers. He understood it; he'd felt it. But sometimes, it was so hard to remember just what it meant.
Ianto tried. He craved it, thirsted for the drops which pattered his forehead in glimpses of blues and golden light. And sometimes he felt it, peppered on his skin with hints of Jack, an essence so vitally Jack that Ianto starved in absence, dwindling until motions and actions were all that remained, repetitious measures of beans to roast, perfecting a tiny brew while life chaosed around him.
Golden light, splintering the crystal until the room blurred in amber shades of warmth and fire. Ianto could see Jack as his face fractured into thousands of crystalline smiles, smiling encouragingly as Ianto sipped what most certainly was a well-aged whisky, comforted by the reassuring grip of familiar bite, alcohol a jagged dagger to his stomach. He indulged, sometimes, but not nearly as often as he once had. It was too easy to drown, too easy to forget who he was, what he was, a survivor of many, wanted of few. That was a dangerous place, haunted and cluttered with scattered remains where memories grew fists and tenderized him prime for death's next feast.
"Did Owen clear you?"
Ianto couldn't help it, his eyebrow arched in quiet sarcasm as he looked at Jack over the rim of the glass. He hadn't taken any of the pills Owen had offered, he never did. Bruises and abrasions, if he was pissing blood in three days he should get himself to hospital. No concussion, no major cuts or threats to his jugular, just a bruised lower back and tender hands. Dislocated his thumb, getting out of those bloody ropes held by poorly tied knots; Jack had taught him with better, stronger. The threat of the team arriving, finding him tied naked to the coffee machine was incentive as well. That had been a night, Ianto remembered, smile dancing across his lips. Handcuffs, rope, plastic ties. Education at his insistence, nightmares of butchers dressed in blood, foul stench of shite and piss recording those who'd died before them following him even in daylight. Escape; something Torchwood One had never bothered to train, perhaps an indication of the destiny engraved in each paycheck.
Taking a deliberate sip of the alcohol, Ianto waited while Jack's brain caught up with Ianto's silent answer. He no longer felt the burn as it sank to his stomach, creeping tendrils of calm spreading to his fingers and toes. Jack's eyes narrowed and Ianto smiled with artificial ease, relaxing back against the wall, gingerly, careful not to bump the tender skin. Escape. A flitting, meaningless word unless action coincided. And Jack had trusted him to act, trusted that he'd shrug off the bonds and save the team, save the civilian, the captain buying time through melodramatic monologue worthy of the worst sci-fi villains. Talked and watched while Ianto struggled free, talked and watched while Ianto popped his thumb to slip around the ropes, talked and watched while depending on Ianto.
Far cry from Lisa, gun to his head and Jack watching not playing. Far cry from the Beacons, blade to his throat and Jack fumbling blind. He saw and trusted, but Ianto couldn't look, staring at the ceiling beams and ignoring the pitying cries of the creature. It was too much to want, too much to need, all the security of confidence in Jack's gaze, unraveling and threadless as the rope cut into his hands. He could taste the fear on the man's breath, feel the tremble of the gun as his purpose and intent momentarily wavered as Jack spoke. Delayed. Purchased time upon the intrinsic value of his voice. Tosh picked up on the game, played too, adding her voice to the casual whoring of words to pay death to pass by just one more time.
It worked, just a crack of a gun too late. Ianto's ears rang with a thousand kettle drums, deafening the creature's frantic pained cries and deadened the voice of the second guesser whispering in his ear. He'd acted without thinking, reacted on instinct to fight the gun from the man's hands. Jack trusted him to succeed, therefore he must. And he did; the chemist, the two ringleaders, the guard at the gate and the last man still loading the lorry, all collapsing unconscious. Safe, for the moment, well, perhaps not the one who'd held Ianto hostage. He wasn't quite sure the damage a straight electrical charge to the head would incur; he found himself rather uncaring of the consequences; his chest still hurt from the gun. But he returned to tie them all, plastic ties securing them until the Retcon could be administered. He'd dose them all himself, but he'd meant what he'd said. "Pray they survive."
Jack might have opted for an alternate plan if any of the team had been killed; Ianto wasn't about to spoil the sheer terror of facing their imminent death by Retconning them into blissful oblivion first.
Ianto trusted Jack as well.
He knew to compare was to scrape for the lowest form of understanding, but it was as inevitable as the next sip of whisky. Gwen and Rhys. He and Jack. It hadn't escaped his notice, given the relatively scarce selection of variables, how much Gwen fought to protect Rhys where Jack had done the opposite for him. However, it'd have chafed something terrible if Jack had acted in any fashion similar to Gwen, and Ianto wasn't so sure that Jack was unaware. Ianto was treated as an equal and it both unnerved and excited, his blood racing as his temperature rose; Jack might as well have been standing before him stark naked for the effect of the thought on Ianto's body and mind. Whatever they had, whatever it meant, be it a casual shag or something more, he was comfortable where he stood next to Jack, with Jack, an understanding between them he'd not felt in so long, breathing life into his veins along with a heady sense of thrill.
"Hell of a day."
A huff of amusement passed Ianto's lips, maybe more a snort but nothing so crass as to diminish the professional air he still maintained despite the unbuttoned waist coat and rolled sleeves; a product of too much lifting and too much gore; the men hadn't been light and the carcass stank of desperate fear. Fear he could empathize with, avoiding the section housing the beast as much as he could, seeing himself tied like Gulliver to the floor, awaiting to be hacked into bits for consumption. It wasn't right on so many levels and for every shrieking cry Ianto remembered one more reason for the situation being so very, very wrong.
It was him, lying bound on the floor, crying in pain.
Ianto refused to allow the beast to rot, to decay in some shallow grave or bloat in the water, and he most certainly refused to hack it further into pieces to freeze in storage at Torchwood Three. He'd scheduled the incineration without Jack's authorization, knowing he'd be supported even if his actions were later questioned. More people to Retcon, more complications, but a respectful end to the lost creature. And it was most certainly lost and alone, dying with Torchwood at its side.
Tiny Torchwood, acting so grand as it raised its fists against the bullies of the universe.
Peeled back a layer, Ianto read Jack's concern. He'd fought and/or stunned six men, relived a few nightmares and had smeared alien guts on his favorite wool coat and scuff marks on his shoes. Not that it couldn't be laundered, he must remember to take it and his suit jacket to the cleaner, but that kind of day didn't sink quietly with the setting sun. A series of snapshots, capturing every sight, smell and sound filled his mind, cataloging the day with all the others, a ghost hand stamping the date and time to each, a red pen jotting down in fine print the caption for each. He'd remember the day, he always would. Just as he remembered every other, for better or worse.
This time, though, he wasn't so alone.
He pushed off the wall with his foot, setting the glass down on the corner of Jack's desk to be picked up at a later time, but for right now, all he could think of was moving beyond the viewable area of both CCTV and the team's desks, taking the risk that Tosh or Owen might wander in and spot them but surprisingly unconcerned for discovery. Slowly, he slipped his hands over Jack's chest, curving with the flow of muscle and bone to feel the pulse pounding beneath his fingers. Back, fingers curling to scratch over Jack's scalp, tangling into the hair as they dragged, a gesture as calming to Jack as it was reassuring to Ianto. The tension etching Jack's eyes, for a moment, vanished as he relaxed into Ianto's hands, pressing against the massaging tips and melting as Ianto knew he would.
Ianto knew Jack had his own nightmares, his own thoughts plaguing him from the day. From Gwen and Rhys to the alien, combining and blending with whatever nightmares and horrors from his past. For all Ianto knew, Jack himself had been cut and fed upon, regrowing flesh upon death in an unending cycle Ianto didn't want to fathom. Which of course would now add to the nightmares he knew would come that night. Arms circled his waist, as slow as Ianto had moved and carefully angling beneath the waist coat to avoid the bruises, drawing him close until his chest pressed against Jack's. He could feel the burn of the mark the gun left and wondered if Jack felt it too, a brand marking him in lamb's blood, death passing over to strike the next.
An Escher portrait, a man who could never stay dead clinging to the man which death could never quite find.
Shifting his stance, Ianto aligned himself fully against the captain, head to toe as he pressed his lips to Jack's. It was soft as their movements were slow, questions understood and fears accepted. Layers fell away with the subtle caress, Jack's shoulders shaking with the effort of the sigh which tickled Ianto's jaw. The press of Jack's hands grew strong as the breath escaped, digging into his shoulder blades as intensity swarmed around them, shifting the calm to desperate fire as Ianto's body turned craven in want.
With restraint crying for attention and a small voice reminding him of Owen and Tosh just outside the door, Ianto nipped Jack's bottom lip before pulling away just enough that words could pass between them. "Come home with me tonight," Ianto breathed, not knowing who he was attempting to benefit with the request; they both were shattered glass soldered back together by Torchwood and a shared appreciation for what the other didn't say . It was Jack's turn to remain silent, holding Ianto's gaze before nodding so quickly Ianto at first believed he had imagined it, a false image of hope overlaying reality. Jack's smile reassured Ianto's sanity as the hands tightened, squeezing the breath from Ianto's lungs before Ianto straightened, fingers dragging back through Jack's hair and down his chest in reverse of what had brought them to the kiss, not bothering to button the waist coat which hung loosely at his sides. He grabbed his deliberately placed drink with a small toast before resuming his stance against the wall, bracing the Hub, a modern Atlas with the world on his shoulders.
Yet he hadn't rewound; time remained linear as Ianto resumed a steady breath, advancing forward as memory played behind. He didn't know what the night would accomplish, what it would bring; he was so battered and fatigued he'd more than likely fall asleep before his head hit the pillow.
But he wouldn't suffer the nightmares alone, and neither would Jack. And though they knew as much about the other as could fill one side of an index card, Jack's personal demons louder and more demanding than even Ianto's, at least they would not be tied down, suffering alone on the cold floor awaiting the slaughter of a million memories feeding upon bare flesh until all that remained was a single layer, curled in upon itself.
Torchwood. The thrill of a lifetime, the solitude of silence. But not for he and Jack. Their silence was different, shared. And in that, they found peace.
Author: sarcasticchick
Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: S2 Epi 4 "Meat", and various epis in between S1 Epi 1 and S2 Epi 4 :)
Beta: lilithilien
Summary: What cost victory?
Word Count: ~3000
A/N: Missing scene for "Meat." Idea struck me while writing the last of SoI and would -not- leave me alone.
"Take it."
Ianto looked at the glass of whisky glowing golden amber pure in Jack's finest crystal as his jaw worked around a denial which contained a mighty to-do list: cancelling the plankton order, laundering his coat which had suffered the most grievous insult of alien guts upon its crisp, coal-black surface, creating a cover story for Rhys' injury, hiring cleaners for the abattoir, checking in on all the prats who'd caused all the trouble, double checking the incinerator project and Retconning the workers as well. And last but not least, discarding the latest pizza boxes he was certain still rested where the team had left them during the lunch hours earlier, collecting the coffee mugs rimmed a perfect roasted brown and burning the remnants of the alien located in the Hub.
Lunch. But it wasn't yet five. Too early to go home, too early to call it a day when he needed to take care of so many things. And far too early to begin drinking. Drinking led to talking which led to thinking, and at this point, Ianto couldn't be arsed to think about anything.
He couldn't.
Gwen had run off with Rhys, a Retcon pill tucked in her back pocket, not the first time she'd ever drugged her fiance with the potent drug, certainly not the last. He knew, he always knew, it was his responsibility to know. He knew of the first time, that betrayal she thought she'd so carefully hidden behind three-Italian cheese pizza topped with pineapple and pepperoni. Ianto had checked in on Rhys later, made sure there were no problems as with Suzie and Max, but Rhys appeared fully functional, no signs of remembering or a recognizable trigger. He couldn't blame Gwen, not really. Not to say he didn't want to, because fuck if he didn't want to dig deep into the darkness surrounding his life and just for an instant revel in disgusting hatred for her selfish actions, for loving Jack, for expressing so freely the spirit of life Ianto craved.
But they were all broken, each and every one of them. Gwen, selfishly clinging to a life devoid of Torchwood; Tosh, ever searching for someone to recognize her for the beauty she was, not the shadow she reflected; Owen, ever fearing the connection he so desperately craved; and Jack, whom Ianto believed more broken then all combined but who buried it neatly between passed years and casual shags, half-hearted attempts at living while greedily consuming death like a high which took far more than it gave.
Ianto wondered what it was like, though he rather believed he knew. Death wasn't a stranger, always knocking, always begging entrance to steal his soul. It came and went, sometimes beautiful, sometimes cruel, stripping him bare a layer at a time until only the most tender of rings circled his heart, deflecting passing attempts of mimicked love and false belonging.
The whisky swirled real, however, the growing concerned frown stretching Jack's lips leading Ianto to believe he'd hesitated just long enough to invite questions. Questions, and quite possibly demands, all summing equal to purposefully directed thought and that was what he most wished to bury beneath lists and routine. Feed Myfanwy. Take out the rubbish. Run vinegar through the coffee machine, followed by no less than three baths of clean water. Wash the mugs. Complete the paperwork. Requisition new disposable aprons for Owen; the green had been a lovely, most obnoxious shade against his pale skin. Or perhaps pink next time. Run a hack on the national CCTV footage to erase Torchwood SUV movement through the city. Laundry, he mustn't forget to take his great coat to the launderette.
"Ianto."
His name spoken so clearly, so neatly veiled with webs of threat, or maybe it was concern. Ianto couldn't tell, never could with Jack, who always spoke in tone upon tone of complex foreign experience breathed in a whispered kiss of sound. It was simple and low, yet Ianto knew the volumes Jack intended and expected him to understand. Their conversations were always like this, meaning buried within innuendo and awareness, a constant judgment of cataloged fact balanced by assumed human nature. Jack pretended he understood, and Ianto replied in equal farce. They danced around everything and rarely spoke of anything, though sometimes, sometimes the words meant what they were defined as, blunt shards of self laid bare for the brief glimpse into who they truly were. \Who they were beneath suits and waistcoats and modern briefs.
Creatures of habit, creatures of pain, creatures of love and tortured life.
Sounded familiar, only they were drugged by possibility and chained by self-created shackles, guilt and remorse as heavy as any steel. There was no one to fight, no bad guys to blame, no warehouses to flee. Just meat cleavers and metal hooks stabbing patterned dots to outline their frames, bleeding them as cleanly as any young deer with a blade to its throat, spilling hope and faith with each heart beat.
Been there, bled that. Funny, how that was truly a metaphor for Torchwood. Pieces of veal, dying young to feed those rich enough in life to enjoy it.
With a sigh, Ianto took the proffered glass, noting that Jack hadn't poured one for himself or any of the others working away at their computers and piddling with their doohickeys and numbers, grappling for the meaning of life within the confines of alien tech. It was a fruitless task; Ianto had tried. Within Torchwood One, within the dank cellars of Torchwood Three, within his continued existence, scrabbling to regain some semblance of traction as love slipped past like silk through his fingers. He understood it; he'd felt it. But sometimes, it was so hard to remember just what it meant.
Ianto tried. He craved it, thirsted for the drops which pattered his forehead in glimpses of blues and golden light. And sometimes he felt it, peppered on his skin with hints of Jack, an essence so vitally Jack that Ianto starved in absence, dwindling until motions and actions were all that remained, repetitious measures of beans to roast, perfecting a tiny brew while life chaosed around him.
Golden light, splintering the crystal until the room blurred in amber shades of warmth and fire. Ianto could see Jack as his face fractured into thousands of crystalline smiles, smiling encouragingly as Ianto sipped what most certainly was a well-aged whisky, comforted by the reassuring grip of familiar bite, alcohol a jagged dagger to his stomach. He indulged, sometimes, but not nearly as often as he once had. It was too easy to drown, too easy to forget who he was, what he was, a survivor of many, wanted of few. That was a dangerous place, haunted and cluttered with scattered remains where memories grew fists and tenderized him prime for death's next feast.
"Did Owen clear you?"
Ianto couldn't help it, his eyebrow arched in quiet sarcasm as he looked at Jack over the rim of the glass. He hadn't taken any of the pills Owen had offered, he never did. Bruises and abrasions, if he was pissing blood in three days he should get himself to hospital. No concussion, no major cuts or threats to his jugular, just a bruised lower back and tender hands. Dislocated his thumb, getting out of those bloody ropes held by poorly tied knots; Jack had taught him with better, stronger. The threat of the team arriving, finding him tied naked to the coffee machine was incentive as well. That had been a night, Ianto remembered, smile dancing across his lips. Handcuffs, rope, plastic ties. Education at his insistence, nightmares of butchers dressed in blood, foul stench of shite and piss recording those who'd died before them following him even in daylight. Escape; something Torchwood One had never bothered to train, perhaps an indication of the destiny engraved in each paycheck.
Taking a deliberate sip of the alcohol, Ianto waited while Jack's brain caught up with Ianto's silent answer. He no longer felt the burn as it sank to his stomach, creeping tendrils of calm spreading to his fingers and toes. Jack's eyes narrowed and Ianto smiled with artificial ease, relaxing back against the wall, gingerly, careful not to bump the tender skin. Escape. A flitting, meaningless word unless action coincided. And Jack had trusted him to act, trusted that he'd shrug off the bonds and save the team, save the civilian, the captain buying time through melodramatic monologue worthy of the worst sci-fi villains. Talked and watched while Ianto struggled free, talked and watched while Ianto popped his thumb to slip around the ropes, talked and watched while depending on Ianto.
Far cry from Lisa, gun to his head and Jack watching not playing. Far cry from the Beacons, blade to his throat and Jack fumbling blind. He saw and trusted, but Ianto couldn't look, staring at the ceiling beams and ignoring the pitying cries of the creature. It was too much to want, too much to need, all the security of confidence in Jack's gaze, unraveling and threadless as the rope cut into his hands. He could taste the fear on the man's breath, feel the tremble of the gun as his purpose and intent momentarily wavered as Jack spoke. Delayed. Purchased time upon the intrinsic value of his voice. Tosh picked up on the game, played too, adding her voice to the casual whoring of words to pay death to pass by just one more time.
It worked, just a crack of a gun too late. Ianto's ears rang with a thousand kettle drums, deafening the creature's frantic pained cries and deadened the voice of the second guesser whispering in his ear. He'd acted without thinking, reacted on instinct to fight the gun from the man's hands. Jack trusted him to succeed, therefore he must. And he did; the chemist, the two ringleaders, the guard at the gate and the last man still loading the lorry, all collapsing unconscious. Safe, for the moment, well, perhaps not the one who'd held Ianto hostage. He wasn't quite sure the damage a straight electrical charge to the head would incur; he found himself rather uncaring of the consequences; his chest still hurt from the gun. But he returned to tie them all, plastic ties securing them until the Retcon could be administered. He'd dose them all himself, but he'd meant what he'd said. "Pray they survive."
Jack might have opted for an alternate plan if any of the team had been killed; Ianto wasn't about to spoil the sheer terror of facing their imminent death by Retconning them into blissful oblivion first.
Ianto trusted Jack as well.
He knew to compare was to scrape for the lowest form of understanding, but it was as inevitable as the next sip of whisky. Gwen and Rhys. He and Jack. It hadn't escaped his notice, given the relatively scarce selection of variables, how much Gwen fought to protect Rhys where Jack had done the opposite for him. However, it'd have chafed something terrible if Jack had acted in any fashion similar to Gwen, and Ianto wasn't so sure that Jack was unaware. Ianto was treated as an equal and it both unnerved and excited, his blood racing as his temperature rose; Jack might as well have been standing before him stark naked for the effect of the thought on Ianto's body and mind. Whatever they had, whatever it meant, be it a casual shag or something more, he was comfortable where he stood next to Jack, with Jack, an understanding between them he'd not felt in so long, breathing life into his veins along with a heady sense of thrill.
"Hell of a day."
A huff of amusement passed Ianto's lips, maybe more a snort but nothing so crass as to diminish the professional air he still maintained despite the unbuttoned waist coat and rolled sleeves; a product of too much lifting and too much gore; the men hadn't been light and the carcass stank of desperate fear. Fear he could empathize with, avoiding the section housing the beast as much as he could, seeing himself tied like Gulliver to the floor, awaiting to be hacked into bits for consumption. It wasn't right on so many levels and for every shrieking cry Ianto remembered one more reason for the situation being so very, very wrong.
It was him, lying bound on the floor, crying in pain.
Ianto refused to allow the beast to rot, to decay in some shallow grave or bloat in the water, and he most certainly refused to hack it further into pieces to freeze in storage at Torchwood Three. He'd scheduled the incineration without Jack's authorization, knowing he'd be supported even if his actions were later questioned. More people to Retcon, more complications, but a respectful end to the lost creature. And it was most certainly lost and alone, dying with Torchwood at its side.
Tiny Torchwood, acting so grand as it raised its fists against the bullies of the universe.
Peeled back a layer, Ianto read Jack's concern. He'd fought and/or stunned six men, relived a few nightmares and had smeared alien guts on his favorite wool coat and scuff marks on his shoes. Not that it couldn't be laundered, he must remember to take it and his suit jacket to the cleaner, but that kind of day didn't sink quietly with the setting sun. A series of snapshots, capturing every sight, smell and sound filled his mind, cataloging the day with all the others, a ghost hand stamping the date and time to each, a red pen jotting down in fine print the caption for each. He'd remember the day, he always would. Just as he remembered every other, for better or worse.
This time, though, he wasn't so alone.
He pushed off the wall with his foot, setting the glass down on the corner of Jack's desk to be picked up at a later time, but for right now, all he could think of was moving beyond the viewable area of both CCTV and the team's desks, taking the risk that Tosh or Owen might wander in and spot them but surprisingly unconcerned for discovery. Slowly, he slipped his hands over Jack's chest, curving with the flow of muscle and bone to feel the pulse pounding beneath his fingers. Back, fingers curling to scratch over Jack's scalp, tangling into the hair as they dragged, a gesture as calming to Jack as it was reassuring to Ianto. The tension etching Jack's eyes, for a moment, vanished as he relaxed into Ianto's hands, pressing against the massaging tips and melting as Ianto knew he would.
Ianto knew Jack had his own nightmares, his own thoughts plaguing him from the day. From Gwen and Rhys to the alien, combining and blending with whatever nightmares and horrors from his past. For all Ianto knew, Jack himself had been cut and fed upon, regrowing flesh upon death in an unending cycle Ianto didn't want to fathom. Which of course would now add to the nightmares he knew would come that night. Arms circled his waist, as slow as Ianto had moved and carefully angling beneath the waist coat to avoid the bruises, drawing him close until his chest pressed against Jack's. He could feel the burn of the mark the gun left and wondered if Jack felt it too, a brand marking him in lamb's blood, death passing over to strike the next.
An Escher portrait, a man who could never stay dead clinging to the man which death could never quite find.
Shifting his stance, Ianto aligned himself fully against the captain, head to toe as he pressed his lips to Jack's. It was soft as their movements were slow, questions understood and fears accepted. Layers fell away with the subtle caress, Jack's shoulders shaking with the effort of the sigh which tickled Ianto's jaw. The press of Jack's hands grew strong as the breath escaped, digging into his shoulder blades as intensity swarmed around them, shifting the calm to desperate fire as Ianto's body turned craven in want.
With restraint crying for attention and a small voice reminding him of Owen and Tosh just outside the door, Ianto nipped Jack's bottom lip before pulling away just enough that words could pass between them. "Come home with me tonight," Ianto breathed, not knowing who he was attempting to benefit with the request; they both were shattered glass soldered back together by Torchwood and a shared appreciation for what the other didn't say . It was Jack's turn to remain silent, holding Ianto's gaze before nodding so quickly Ianto at first believed he had imagined it, a false image of hope overlaying reality. Jack's smile reassured Ianto's sanity as the hands tightened, squeezing the breath from Ianto's lungs before Ianto straightened, fingers dragging back through Jack's hair and down his chest in reverse of what had brought them to the kiss, not bothering to button the waist coat which hung loosely at his sides. He grabbed his deliberately placed drink with a small toast before resuming his stance against the wall, bracing the Hub, a modern Atlas with the world on his shoulders.
Yet he hadn't rewound; time remained linear as Ianto resumed a steady breath, advancing forward as memory played behind. He didn't know what the night would accomplish, what it would bring; he was so battered and fatigued he'd more than likely fall asleep before his head hit the pillow.
But he wouldn't suffer the nightmares alone, and neither would Jack. And though they knew as much about the other as could fill one side of an index card, Jack's personal demons louder and more demanding than even Ianto's, at least they would not be tied down, suffering alone on the cold floor awaiting the slaughter of a million memories feeding upon bare flesh until all that remained was a single layer, curled in upon itself.
Torchwood. The thrill of a lifetime, the solitude of silence. But not for he and Jack. Their silence was different, shared. And in that, they found peace.