Fic: Butterfly In Reverse Part One
Title: Butterfly In Reverse
Author Name: hitlikehammers
Recipient: hugglewolf
Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Summary: It’s not fair that Jack always has to lose what he loves, and Ianto is going to fix it. Post-Exit Wounds, mild crossover with Doctor Who.
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot. All recognizable elements of Torchwood and Doctor Who are copyright to RTD and the BBC; the title is borrowed from the Counting Crows song of the same name.
Warnings: Spoilers for Torchwood S1, S2; Doctor Who S1, mild S3. Intense hurt/comfort warning, character death, and extremely-emotional!Jack as well, if that’s not your cup of tea.
Word Count: 19,656
Author's Notes: For Huggle: This thing became something of a monster - the sort that takes on a life of its own and doesn’t stop until it gets what it wants. Reading through the prompts and guidelines, it was this plot bunny that simply would not die, no matter how hard I tried to formulate something more manageable. I did my best to work in at least the one prompt -Protective!Ianto - as thoroughly as possible; which, admittedly, resulted in an overly emotional Jack; but hey, those aren’t so bad, really. Anyway, I do hope that this is satisfactory enough on that account, and that you enjoy!
Betas: The ever-spectacular metaphysically and caralyn
______________________________________________________________________
Part I
If there was one thing that Ianto Jones was positive about, one thing he knew for certain, it was that life was, and always would be, entirely and unabashedly unfair.
There had been a time - not a lifetime ago, but long enough for the details to be hazy in remembering - when he’d clung to that fact like a mantra. Life wasn’t fair, and therefore he didn’t have to accept the cards he’d been dealt, at least not quietly. He could be angry that the university that he’d wanted hadn’t wanted him, he could be disappointed when he was drafted into Torchwood as a low-level runner, he could be jealous when his girlfriend actually looked twice at the men who flirted with her. He could even blame being genuinely pissed off when he hadn’t been granted the dignity of burning, of going down with the ship at Canary Wharf as a side effect of life being unfair. It wasn’t until he tried pinning the pain of losing the first woman he’d ever really loved, and later the guilt of hatefully spurning the first man he’d ever really loved (and there was a difference, he was sure) that he began to suspect that life’s tendency towards playing dirty pool wasn’t so much a justification as it was a condition of simply living to breathe another breath.
And fuck all if it wasn’t a hard realization to come to.
And yet, sitting against the unforgiving concrete, spine aching and shoulders hunched, the chill of the evening breeze off the bay whistling through his flesh - his bones - like an elegy, he knew, in the clutches of that numb, that low, that it didn’t always have a reason, a why; that sometimes, it all went sideways, and bad things happened to good people and sure, it wasn’t fair, but that didn’t make it any less real. Unfair didn’t stop the world from turning, or the sun from setting. Unfair didn’t bring people back from the dead.
‘Well,’ Ianto thought ruefully, ‘sometimes it does.’
The feel of Jack’s fingers against his, like the flutter of a butterfly’s wings, softly pushing Ianto’s hand from his shoulder as he left the Hub without a word - or his coat, for that matter - was burning subtly against his flesh, still crawling beneath his fingernails some two hours and half-a-fifth of bourbon later. He tried to tell himself that he understood; they’d all suffered, they’d all lost, and it still hurt like hell. Different people grieved in different ways, and it wasn’t a personal slight that, where Ianto just wanted someone next to him, something warm to remind him of what life felt like, Jack needed his space, somewhere high above the noise and bustle, somewhere quiet and peaceful and undisturbed that felt nothing like life at all. He tried to convince himself that it didn’t bother him, not really, that Jack hadn’t stayed with him in bed, hadn’t woken up next to him even once in the past two weeks since they’d lost Owen and Tosh, since Jack had also lost his brother; that it didn’t really matter that, save for the brave face of barely-contained inner turmoil they both put on for one another, neither had so much as shed a tear in the other’s presence since it had happened. He tried to make himself believe that it was better like this, that he mourned in his own way, and that Jack did the same; that in this nondescript little outcropping, somewhere between his flat and the Hub, perched upon the bottom step of something, some building of vague significance, scratching against a pattern in the cement in a thoughtless, desperate attempt to erode the echo of Jack’s touch - that here, and now, things were better off.
But even the alcohol couldn’t convince him that the loneliness was actually worthwhile, some sort of healing in disguise.
The sound of the landing was covered up by the rush of blood behind his eardrums; he hadn’t even been looking in that direction until he caught the movement in his peripheral vision. His stomach dropped as he recognized the tall rail of a man sauntering towards him on light feet, glowing bright crimson in the moonlight, in the gentle mask of the street lamps. His face was unmistakable, from the one time he’d seen it live, a visual feed at Torchwood Tower during the siege, and from the countless consequent images, CCTV stills and grainy footage that outlined the thin face, the spiky hair, the glasses… the fucking glasses.
“Hello there,” a voice, one that suited well the appearance that had stopped just in front of his toes, greeted Ianto with a jovial sort of wariness; polite, warm almost, but not without guard, not without consideration. Ianto set the bottle he’d been grasping down at his side, fingers still wrapped around the neck as he leaned forward, balanced on his elbows as he stared up at the unwitting intruder through wet, clumping eyelashes, with a bleary gaze of indifference.
“Why are you here?”
The man blinked once, twice, and shifted on his feet, the rubber soles bending precariously near the arches as he bounced. “Pardon?”
“I asked you a question,” Ianto swallowed, straightening a bit as he tried to make his mouth less dry, tried to flood his throat with saliva. “What are you doing here? What do you want?”
Ianto knew that his unexpected visitor, now standing with an eyebrow arched high into his forehead and his arms crossed over his chest, deserved more respect, so far as a standard sense of etiquette was concerned. However, staring at the man, hazed by the cheap whiskey coursing through his veins, he couldn’t bring himself to care. “A bright blue police box just appeared before your eyes where it wasn’t just moments before. You saw it pop out of nowhere; you did, it’s in your eyes. You saw that, and the most pressing thing you can think to ask me is ‘What do I want’?”
Ianto rolled his eyes, scuffing the heels of his dress shoes into the ground grudgingly as he murmured, “Do I have to ask again?”
“You’re an interesting fellow,” the newcomer approached, eyeing Ianto shrewdly from behind his black frames, hands shoved in the pockets of his trousers and jutting outwards from the seams of each leg. “What’s your name?”
“Show me yours, I’ll show you mine,” Ianto shot with a devilish sneer - if the alcohol hadn’t helped him to forget, hadn’t numbed him, it had certainly loosened his tongue.
“And cheeky, too!” Ianto instinctively drew back as he was honed in upon by those intense chocolate eyes, suddenly very certain that he understood the power that this man possessed, why worlds feared him and entire galaxies sang his praises. “But if I had to put money on it,” Ianto watched as the gaze came level with his own as the other man stooped, the corners of his eyes narrowing in consideration, and not entirely without threat, “I’d say you don’t need me to show you anything. I’d say you already knew.”
“So it wasn’t all just rumors,” Ianto muttered quietly. “Quite the clever sod, you are, indeed.”
The Doctor either appreciated his sarcasm enough to let it slide, or was exercising mercy in response to Ianto’s smart comment, because he simply shrugged it off as if it didn’t exist. “Given our location, I’m going to pin you down as one of Jack’s happy brood.”
“And cleverer by the moment,” Ianto lauded him mockingly for only a second, barely sure what it was he was doing at all. “Amazing, Doctor. Simply amazing.”
“Ianto Jones, then, is it?” The Doctor stood, his long coat billowing as he did, swiping his glasses from his nose and tucking them in his pocket as he looked Ianto up and down with a careful eye. “You certainly don’t strike me as the medic, so I’m thinking you’re the archivist Jack was so fond of.”
“‘Fond’ is a relative term, I suspect,” Ianto cringed bitterly, grasping blindly at the bourbon sitting next to him and wishing the burn felt more intense against his throat as he tossed back a swig violently, trying his best to choke himself and failing terribly.
“Finding what you’re looking for in there?” The Doctor gestured vaguely at the bottle as it came to rest at Ianto’s right hip once more.
Smacking his lips, Ianto shook his head. “Unfortunately no.”
“Too bad,” The Doctor commented offhandedly, picking up the alcohol and swirling it in his hand for a moment, glancing quickly at the label and sniffing at the open mouth before replacing it next to Ianto, gracefully dropping down to sit on the other side of bottle. “Looks like you could use to have something go your way just now, hmm?”
“Like you wouldn’t believe.”
“My sympathies, Mr. Jones,” he paused, dipping his head to try and catch Ianto’s eye in between his hands, the cracks in his fingers as he framed his face, trying to mask his sorrow. “Or perhaps... my condolences?”
Ianto cleared his throat and turned away, shame burning in his cheeks for reasons he didn’t quite comprehend. “I don’t need your pity.”
“I’m afraid that wasn’t on the menu.”
Feeling the Time Lord’s hand settle comfortingly on his shoulder in silent solidarity made it all suddenly even worse, and he flinched at the contact, but refused to shrug it off - it was too tempting not to give into it, to imagine it was someone else…“I mean, it’s bad enough for me. It’s horrific,” he swallowed down a cry and cringed as it settled hard and heavy in the pit of his gut. “It’s...” he tried to steady his voice, “unbearable. But for Jack...” he trailed, his words cracking on a note too high for his vocal chords to hit.
“Speaking of whom...” the Doctor began, fingers flexing on Ianto’s shoulder blades, but Ianto didn’t hear him, could hear nothing.
“It’s got to be so much worse for him,” Ianto mused, grief and remorse and sheer feeling lacing every syllable, so bright and unmistakable that was almost blinding, almost too real, too inescapable to bear. “So much worse.”
“What’s worse?” The Doctor asked, his voice quiet, vibrating low, and Ianto was somewhat surprised to hear a note of genuine concern, of honest feeling in his question.
“We lost two of our team recently,” he spoke softly, as if the louder he admitted it, the more he gave it weight; the more unavoidable, undeniable it would become. “Tosh, she was brilliant...” So inadequate to describe her, really; just ‘brilliant.’ She had been remarkable. “She worked with our -”
“Toshiko?” The Doctor suddenly interjected. “Dr. Toshiko Sato?”
Ianto turned to look him in the eye. “Did you know her?”
A fond sort of sadness curled his lips as he replied, “We met in passing, once.”
Ianto nodded, leaving the topic to rest. “She died a hero’s death. So did Owen, the medic, as you so aptly termed him.” Images of the two of them - working, interacting, bickering, smiling, living - flooded Ianto’s mind as his throat grew tight. “They’re gone. And it hurts, because it’s only the three of us now. And I’m left alive,” he laughed humorlessly, flicking a pebble with his free hand, running the pads of his fingers consistently against the rutted lines in the pavement, the repetition comforting, grounding. “While everyone else just keeps dying... I’m still alive. Again.”
“I’m sorry.” Ianto was appreciative of the Doctor’s sympathy, he really was, but he couldn't bring himself to stop, to acknowledge it. He couldn’t notice it, else he’d be done for.
“And I can’t sleep at night, because I can’t stop thinking about them, about how their last moments had to have felt.” Thoughts of Tosh, feeling, seeing her own blood leave her and knowing that it was over, her very life seeping away from her drop by drop; Owen flooded with, with… it was too much. Far too much. “And then back in London, how those people must have felt, before they were taken. Converted,” he spat the word like the venom it was, teeth clenching around the end, hard steel to match the memories, scattered and fragmented though they were in his mind; bits of flesh and bone and blood. “My friends, my colleagues, and here, my family; but never me. I’m always spared. And sometimes, that hurts more.”
The Doctor’s arm made it’s way slowly, unannounced across Ianto’s back, cradling the younger man slightly towards him, and Ianto was a fool to let him, because it felt so good that it was painful; this man didn’t even know him and was caring for him in the smallest and most subtle of ways, but Jack; Jack who he loved, Jack who he’d do anything for… Jack was gone, lost to some rooftop or precipice, and had no one. “I think that always hurts more,” the Doctor whispered from somewhere behind his ear, the sound soft and lilting as they both stared off into nothingness.
“But then there’s Jack.”
Ianto felt the Time Lord at his side stiffen. “Ah, yes. The good old Captain.”
Anger, a bone deep rage that cut through the haze of grief and anguish, that shattered windows and tore down walls and consumed everything in a singular blaze of sheer, unadulterated heat consumed Ianto at that, the tone used to refer to Jack, his Jack; he couldn’t explain what spurred his next words - perhaps it was protectiveness, possessiveness, maybe it was the pain, the disillusionment, the fog of it all; in the end it didn’t matter. All that mattered was the fire behind his eyes when he spun on the Doctor and began to hiss at him in an undertone both clipped and brutal; “You made him like he is. You cursed him. It’s your fault, and yet you still toss him aside. Why can’t you keep him?”
The poison of his every word, the sting of every breath in between cut the alien like a knife, and Ianto secretly relished every small flinch of his features, every passing glimpse of remorse that he managed to draw from his companion, his competition. “Why can’t you let him stay with you, where he’s wanted and safe, and happy, where he doesn’t have to lose you, where he can count on you to be there, and not to change; well, not too often. Why can’t you love him like he needs to be loved? Or at least, let him love you, like he wants to? Like he needs to?”
Ianto stopped, breathing heavily, his heart hammering against his chest as his lungs heaved, almost concealing the soft sound of a reply that came from his side - almost sheepish, almost sad.
“He wasn’t happy with me.”
Ianto’s anger had propelled him thus far, and suddenly it was diminished; all that was left in its treacherous, destructive wake being an emptiness he’d hoped never to feel again. “What?”
“I offered him the option of staying,” the Doctor revealed with carefully placed indifference that bled into his words but not his demeanor. “Of traveling. He turned me down. Came back here.”
“But he’s not happy here, either.”
“Isn’t he?” The Doctor sounded unconvinced; flippant, almost bitter.
“He’s always hurting. It’s just behind everything - his laugh, his smile, his anger, it’s always there, that constant hurt.” Ianto could feel the hurt himself, every day. It was so much more pronounced now, though, after Owen and Tosh. Every glance from Jack seemed to ask how long he had left, how long until he too was gone. “He’s so lonely, Doctor. Always so alone. And it’s not fair.” With a shuttering breath, Ianto squeezed shut his eyes, a tear escaping under the lid and trailing down his cheek. Bowing his head and trying to choke down the sobs that wanted so desperately to find freedom, he pressed his hands to the cold ground between his knees, breathing deeply and feeling the solid cement under him, rubbing against the texture, finding the pattern he’d drawn comfort from before, the little carving that went against the grain of the concrete, etching it just that bit deeper with his fingernail.
“Well, aren’t you a piece of work,” the Doctor finally said, and Ianto was surprised to hear something like wonder in his tone, though he wasn’t brave enough to look and identify it for certain.
“What’s that you’re doing?” Ianto’s head snapped up on impulse, only to find himself nearly nose to nose with the Doctor, who was looming curiously over him, glasses once again in place.
“Doing?” Ianto asked incredulously, backing away a bit so that he could focus on the Doctor properly.
“With your hand there,” the Doctor gestured downwards, crouching to get a better look. “What’re you writing?”
“Oh,” Ianto trailed off, not putting up a fight when the Doctor lifted his hands and studied the ground beneath his fingertips. “I was just… tracing.”
A sharp intake of breath echoed from the Doctor, loud and opaque like a vision, each subsequent inhalation resounding like a drumbeat around them in the quiet evening mist. “Blimey…” the Doctor stood agape, staring down at two short words that meant nothing to Ianto, two words he didn’t even know he was making with his hands, really; two words that seemed silly, to him, but given the Doctor’s expression and the breathlessness in his parted lips, they were anything but.
Bad wolf. Sounded like a fucking cartoon. A nursery rhyme.
The Doctor sprung upwards without warning, startling Ianto into knocking over what was left of his bottle of bourbon. “I have an idea,” the Doctor intoned gravely, as if he were imparting the secrets of life and the universe in the space of a blink. “An idea, mind you,” he clarified with a wag of his finger and a glance above his spectacles. “Just a theory. No guarantees.”
“An idea?”
“Mmm,” he looked past Ianto at something, or perhaps at nothing, eyes glazing for a moment before squarely zeroing back upon the man in front of him. “Because you’re right, Ianto Jones. You’re very right. He shouldn’t have to be alone. He shouldn’t have to always lose everything, everyone. And it’s as much my fault as anyone’s, letting him live like this, letting him suffer, when I could help…” The Doctor was lost again, this time seemingly in himself, though Ianto could feel the tangible pain, the guilt peeling off of him as he contemplated, reminiscing with himself, murmuring softly after a moment, an afterthought: “Well, try to help…”
“He needs someone,” the Doctor finally gathered his wits again with a resolute nod, pacing back and forth before Ianto, who was teetering on the edge of the bottom stair. “Someone like him. Only there’s no one quite like him. And therefore, someone needs to become like him.” Ianto had barely processed this before the Doctor dove back in and continued to ramble on.
“And he needs the right someone. Someone who can be there for him, who can take care of him - stars above, someone who can put up with him!” The wide grin that speared the Time Lord’s face as he came to that point was contagious, and spread to Ianto in spite of himself. “He needs someone he can love without fear, for once; forever. He deserves something more than what he’s gotten, something more than, than... sloppy seconds.” The smile was gone, faded to a sort of melancholy regret, but in its stead, determination took hold. “He deserves to be loved.”
“I love him.” Ianto hadn’t meant to say it, wished desperately for a moment that he hadn’t, until the Doctor fixed him with a gentle smile, not just on his lips, but one that lit up his whole face. Under the sheen of that smile, he simply couldn’t regret divulging the truth.
“That I don’t doubt, not in the slightest,” the Doctor spoke softly, tenderly, the smile still in place. “But that’s not the important question.”
With a deep breath, hands restless in his front pockets and eyes staring hard into Ianto’s wide and confused face, the Doctor spoke slowly, deliberately, not wanting a single inflection out of place as he asked what needed to be asked, what had the power to change them all. “What I need to know is this, Ianto Jones,” he tilted his head, watching for something Ianto couldn’t guess at, inspecting him for things he didn’t know he was, didn’t think he had. “Would you die for him?”
“Without a second thought.” He’d expected the question to be harder.
“Right,” the Doctor exhaled the word heavily, as if it were difficult, and Ianto felt himself tense at the hardness, the lack of joy that suffused the Time Lord’s features as he turned around, running one hand through his hair, the other balanced on his hip “That’s what I thought.”
Ianto stood up, wincing at the strain on his muscles, having been still too long, and walked towards the Doctor, who turned back to face him when he heard Ianto’s approach. “Jack’s immortality was a mistake,” he said plainly, as if commenting on a nice crop of tomatoes, or a good deal at the corner market. “A sort of… after effect, of something bigger. And the most logical way to duplicate the effect is, of course, to replicate the circumstances exactly. Return to the scene of the crime.” The Doctor’s eyes were darting between Ianto’s and whatever lay to either side of him, choosing their fixation at random. He was nervous, and that in turn made Ianto closer to terrified as he sorted through the revelations, the information, trying to come up with a logical solution, a meaningful end product…
“Wait,” Ianto finally stopped, incredulous; disbelieving. “You want to, you want to make me…” he paused, dumbfounded, shaking his head. “You can take me there? Where it happened?”
“I can, hypothetically,” the Doctor noted clinically, but the meaning behind his words was clear, the intention gleaming plainly in his eyes. “Give or take a day or two.”
Ianto didn’t have to think. “Then take me. Please.”
The Doctor held out a hand, pressing it to Ianto’s chest to halt him as he drew closer. “There is every possibility that this won’t work.”
“I don’t care.”
The Doctor narrowed his eyes in scrutiny. “Don’t you?”
Ianto stopped, a million thoughts filtering through his head, a million scenarios, a million reasons to say no. None of them mattered. “I don’t care what I lose,” Ianto whispered, his voice steeled and unwavering. “I have to... I have to try.”
The Doctor watched him for what seemed like forever, studying him almost stoically before breaking into a toothy grin and declaring with an enthusiasm that sparked his whole being out from the depths of the blackest night into the blaze of a supernova; “Then hop to it, Ianto Jones. You’re about to become immortal.”
______________________________________________________________________
Part II
It all moved very fast, once he’d set foot in the TARDIS.
“You can’t draw attention to yourself.”
Ianto was still acclimating himself to the idea that his feet weren’t on the ground, not really, even though they were decidedly planted on the grating of the floor. “Yes, I’ve quite got that part.”
“You can’t let him know who you are.”
Ianto nodded, staring up at the ceiling of the TARDIS, studying its intricacies and spinning a bit, shuffling his feet around in a circle as he gazed up in wonder. “Yes, I know.”
“You’re going to go in, and you have to go up to the 499th floor. No higher, no lower,” the Doctor threw his weight against a sequence of levers attached to the central console. “Do what you have to, but get there, and stay there,” he paused, seemingly evaluating the settings he’d completed and shooting a meaningful glance over his shoulder at Ianto. “You’re clever, you’ll weasel your way through.”
“499, yes,” Ianto confirmed, now watching the fluctuating column at the very center of the control panel with a distracted sort of intensity. “Got that.”
“And you have to be in front of him. You have to die first.”
Ianto’s attention was finally ripped from his surroundings of green and gold and amber, eyes darting immediately to the Doctor, filled with speculation. “Why?”
The Doctor let out a slow breath through pursed lips, fixing Ianto with a sympathetic stare. “Jack’s motivated by pain. If he happens to see you die, it’ll be less likely that the consecutive events will change dramatically enough to matter.”
Ianto steeled himself against whatever nagging fears still swam near the back of his consciousness; they were growing stronger, the impulse to balk threatening to overwhelm him as the bile of nausea rose in his esophagus, and it was getting harder to ignore it without effort. “Right.”
“Stay out of sight until he turns up,” the Doctor continued without commenting on the subtle crack in Ianto’s voice, and for that, the younger man was grateful. “He’ll be all blazing guns and shouting, if I know him; he’ll lead the Daleks straight for you. Let him run, but make a stand in front of him first, before they take him,” he twisted a small dial, smiling in grim satisfaction before turning to lean back against the panel he’d been fiddling with. “You armed?”
Ianto wordlessly reached into his waistband, where he’d carelessly stashed a small piece before leaving the Hub, not thinking much in terms of practicality when he’d done so. His eyes traveled the length of the grip mournfully as the Doctor let a bark of sardonic laughter escape him from across the way.
“That’s nothing against a Dalek.”
Ianto shrugged, stuffing the gun back where it belonged, hidden and cold against his side “From where I’m sitting, it doesn’t much matter, does it?”
The Doctor rested his weight more fully on the machinery behind him, legs crossed at the ankles so that his trainers pointed to the sky. “You’re sure about this?”
“Yeah,” Ianto swallowed, trying to calm his stomach, his pulse. He couldn’t quite manage to look the Doctor in the eye. “Yeah, I’m sure.”
“He loves you, y’know.”
Ianto smiled sadly at the tops of his shoes, noting the dusting of dirt on the hems of his trousers. “You don’t have to tell me that to make me go through with it. I’ve already come this far.”
“No,” the Doctor shook his head, pushing himself to his feet and walking slowly towards Ianto. “No, that’s not what I meant.”
He was only a breath away from the other man, his mouth opening and closing many times, his hand coming up, hovering over Ianto’s shoulder, his chest, his arm until it fell again, and he finally spoke. “I... it has to be you. He could stay with me forever, if he wanted, but he’d never be happy, not anymore.” This time the Doctor raised his palm to Ianto’s sternum, his eyes grave as he pressed against his chest meaningfully. “He needs you. He cares about you. And if I know Jack, and I did once...” A gentle, reminiscent smile crossed his features and he paused for a moment before picking back up; “He does love you, very much.” Sliding his hand to Ianto’s left shoulder, and bringing the other to rest at his right, he squeezed gently in emphasis, a gleam shimmering in the corner of his eye. “Trust me, Ianto Jones; I am very rarely wrong.”
Ianto tried to let the Doctor’s certainty fill him with resolution, with his own brand of sureness, but it was a moot point. “Here’s hoping, yeah?” he smiled weakly, his gut wrenching as he tried to fight the butterflies in the pit of his stomach, tried to tell himself that it didn’t matter, that it had never mattered if Jack loved him back, because Ianto was head over heels and didn’t have anyone to pull him right-side-up either way.
He barely noticed that everything was much more still around him, couldn’t tell that they had landed where they needed to be until the Doctor had gently herded him to the door, his face set and his expression as reassuring as Ianto figured he could manage, which was all he could ask for, really.
“One more thing,” the Doctor shifted uneasily as he cracked open the TARDIS doors, avoiding Ianto’s gaze. “Jack... Jack ended up alone, after this. He was alone for a very long time,” Ianto watched as the Doctor’s Adam’s apple bobbed before he continued. “He was stranded, lost. Did he ever tell you?”
Not in words, he was far too proud for that. But Ianto could tell that Jack had been lost, had been abandoned more than once in his many years; the pain, the suspicion, the trust (or lack thereof), the inability to commit, the fear... he’d never said it out loud, but he’d never had to. “Not explicitly, no.”
The Doctor caught his gaze accidentally as he shook his head, his face genuinely remorseful, his eyes filled to the brim with true, honest regret. “It has to happen exactly the same way,” he spoke soft, but earnest. “He has to be alone; you can’t change his timeline, you can’t interfere.”
Ianto drew a sharp breath as pain spiked cold in his chest; he had the chance to help Jack, to save him, to spare him incalculable pain... “Doctor, I -”
“You cannot spare him, Ianto,” the Doctor’s voice was strained, a tight sort of hiss as he gripped Ianto’s biceps and shook him slightly, just once, as if trying to wake them both up, trying to save them both from the consuming still. “And neither can I. It’ll tempt you, I’m sure of it. Especially if I can’t get back directly after, if there’s time between. But you must stay away from him, you must leave him here. You understand, yes?” The Doctor’s eyes were pleading, searching Ianto’s for a promise that would kill them both; knowing that he was asking the unthinkable, that Ianto would feel it so much more.
Ianto was already feeling it.
“Yes,” he thought his throat might be closing in around that word, that disgusting word, that single three-letter mockery that would damn Jack to some of the worst torment he would ever know - rejection, uncertainty, confusion, and on top of it all, no one to face it with him. “Yes, I understand.”
The Doctor’s eyes simply bore into him as he swung open the doors of his time machine, opening the TARDIS and releasing Ianto into the wild, a mother robin waiting for the last clinging youngling to flee the nest, stripping Ianto of all safety, all solid ground beneath his feet. “Then good luck, Ianto Jones.”
Ianto stepped out, eyes shut tight, trying to imagine Jack in his position, trying to emulate his confidence, trying to remember that it was him, that very same man, that Ianto was doing this for at all, reminding himself that this was worth it; letting his heart remind him.
“Oh, and watch out for the Anne Droid!”
Ianto turned quickly, eyes snapping open at the distant sounding shout from behind him. “The what?”
But there was only a shadow of the Doctor’s smile caught in between the closing TARDIS doors before he was alone, the sinisterly comforting woosh of the time machine’s departure resonating in his throat as he swallowed.
And so it came to pass that Ianto Jones was left to die.
--------------------------------------------------
The rumble of voices, of movement, and the impending cloud that preceded death on a very regular basis was resonating, permeating, and Ianto could feel it shiver in his very blood.
It was a fact of his life, his very genetic code, he suspected, that he passionately disliked crowds. They made him feel claustrophobic and suddenly significant, each breath he took stealing precious oxygen from the hundreds of people sandwiched in next to him, and he hated that feeling.
He couldn’t have determined where the hand that had grabbed him had come from exactly, taking him by surprise and pulling him towards the lift from where he’d been perched at a view-window on the 329th Level, somewhere between what he’d deduced to be equally uncommon versions of the sets for ‘Who’s Line Is It Anyway?’ (which he’d watched from the shadows for the past day and a half with a sickened fascination as the points were tallied and the Hoedown executed with consecutive vaporizations after each contestant’s verse was complete) and what had to be ‘QI,’ given the robot seated at the desk that looked strikingly like a shiny, silver Stephen Fry. He’d been watching ships, Dalek ships, from what the Doctor had been willing to divulge, as they appeared in the sky out of nowhere, and he’d been waiting for the last of the stragglers to take their leave and let him make his way unnoticed to the levels higher up. But with a flurry of footsteps, a fist grasped tight around his forearm, and an unidentifiable shout of “We’re evacuatin’! Come on!” from the moving mass of panicked people, he hadn’t stood a chance.
Therefore, he didn’t know how he’d managed to allow himself to get caught up in the crowd, but he had nonetheless, and now he was staring vacantly at the triple rings glaring hard and sleek from above him on the wall, musing as to how he was going to manage to get back up nearly five hundred levels in time to make this work.
His answer didn’t take long in coming, his savior in black and white, in flesh and blood, in...
Fucking hell, was he wearing leather?
Ianto swallowed hard, barely registering the voice, strangely the same voice he’d known for so long, coming out of this fiery man who had appeared suddenly and taken control of the chaos with his tough talk, his hard eyes, and his huge gun.
No, no. That wasn’t leather. That couldn’t be leather, Ianto was sure of it, as he stared for a long moment, and then another, at the clench and release of Jack’s glorious arse beneath the material. No, whatever that was, it was something altogether better than leather.
It was Jack, alright; this was Jack, and altogether a different Jack than he knew, though so very much the same it almost hurt to look at him, almost hurt to know that he was about to die, to know that he would die and die and die, continuously and without end, until the very last days of the universe. It hurt to hear his accent, the way the words fell from his tongue just so, in just the right cadence, and not see the greatcoat. He looked so sure, so light and unbound, standing there, weight shifted to one foot, hips cocked and crotch jutted almost naturally, as if anyone half as beautiful as him could stand just the same without a second thought.
Ianto found himself entranced, not at all processing the words, the warning streaming from Jack’s lips as he trailed up the toned, bare skin of his arms, the muscles proud and obvious in hard, twining lines, the veins prominent - more so than they ever were now, so often covered by his sleeves. He licked his lips as he watched the prominent bulge in the front of Jack’s trousers, flicked his eyes down the shiny material hugging Jack’s inner thighs, missing his Jack, and his simple, outdated wardrobe, his lighter, shaggier hair, and his deeper, more soulful eyes more desperately with every passing second spent evaluating this former version of his beloved.
The shots fired into the air startled him, though not enough to prevent a passing glance at the ripple of Jack’s muscles as he braced against the kick of each bullet. “One last time!” He shouted, and Ianto felt himself shiver at the power, the authority - the strange and misplaced innocence behind it that made no sense; Jack was no novice, even this Jack, he knew that much, but somehow he seemed so much more honest, more unfettered, less obligated - he looked excited and terrified, a sudden youth taking him as his features flooded with rage and he stared into the soul of every single man and woman assembled before him. “Any more volunteers?”
“There’s an army about to invade this station,” he continued, and Ianto found himself surveying the frightened, hunched forms of disbelievers just as Jack did, but with less intensity. They were petrified, and they were willing to cling to the idea that what didn’t exist couldn’t hurt them as a result. Ianto pitied them, wished there was something he could do, wished he could convince them, save them - he remembered what it was like to be like them, and it made his chest sore as he recalled the helplessness, watched their faces clenched in true fear. They weren’t bad people, he was sure of it - not all of them, at least. Misguided, naive... but that wasn’t a fate deserving of death. “I need every last citizen to mount a defense.”
The subtle resignation in Jack’s stance, in his voice, told Ianto that he was feeling the exact same thing. The rest of his words were drowned out by Ianto’s pulse hammering in his ears, his heart desperate to reach out to Jack and comfort him, to let him know that it wasn’t all in vain, that it would be alright, that he would be alright, that he would be loved, even if it took centuries. He would be loved wholly and truly, above all reason and comprehension; loved more than life, if only once. Ianto had seen to that much.
He watched as the gathered crowd was threatened, guilted appropriately, and Ianto could not deny it - he was entrancing, this mortal Jack, this Jack who had the same bravado but none of the loneliness, none of the sorrow - this Jack who was storming headfirst towards a death he didn’t know he’d be able to come back from. He was headstrong and foolish in a way that was entirely purposeful - he knew he was reckless, but he would have it no other way - and it was a recklessness so different from his Jack, who was careless with his life because he felt it was his duty, his own sort of sacred charge; he felt himself expendable by nature. This Jack, though... this Jack was brimming with the kind of hope that Ianto had only just learned to let go of, and sometimes desperately wanted back.
In that moment, Ianto had the strangest feeling that, given the opportunity, he could build a different sort of relationship with this man, this very finite Jack Harkness; a relationship in which he could protect, in which he could lead once in a while, something steady and definite in which they were both on even footing, both equals, both limited and bound by the same constraints, the same very human mortality and boundaries. He could be what this Jack needed.
Strangely, he knew he didn’t want that. Not at all.
He felt suddenly stable, suddenly sure and sound and ready, ready to take on the world, as a sense of peace spread through him from limb to limb. He didn’t want this Jack. He didn’t want any Jack but his own. He didn’t want anyone else, just Captain Jack Harkness, stranded in the 21st century, saving a primitive human race from the big bad universe that sought to take it by surprise, protecting what he held dear and suffering the consequences of that care, that love, learning to live with the heartbreak like a second skin. Those beautiful eyes, that beautiful soul; that was all he wanted - the darkness and the light, the pain and the wonder, anything and everything about that singular man, who he was in that time, who he had become, the good and the bad, the impossibility and the tangibility, the truth and the lies, all wrapped into one.
Jack Harkness was his world, and he refused to be ashamed of that. And now, Ianto finally had the opportunity to prove it.
“Don’t make a sound. Let’s go.”
That was his cue - and if he closed his eyes, he could see his Jack beckoning, and Ianto smiled at the image in his mind as he readied himself for battle.
He slipped quietly behind them, hugging to the walls, sliding with his back against the metal, stealing out after them once the rest of the huddled refugees (soon to be casualties, Ianto thought with a frown) had taken back up the argument of whether the Daleks were really about to storm their inconsequential little Gamestation.
He followed Jack for a time, as far as when he paused with the rest of his small but determined group of rebels, standing fast for the sake of humanity; he couldn’t bear the false hope he was filling them with, spouting something reassuring about bastic bullets that wouldn’t save anyone, his frown deepening but gone before anyone could notice when the fleet accelerated, declaring war with the sort of veiled reluctance he’d always spoken of things like retconning innocent victims, or reporting another person gone missing to the Rift. He couldn’t handle watching Jack, a man who would become his Jack some day, suffer through lying to these people, bolstering them up so that their last moments would be false where the truth would have only led them to despair.
It was something his Jack would have done, as well.
Ianto kept climbing, the lift stopping finally, after a lifetime, at Level 499. He alighted carefully, trying to ignore the sounds of battle seeping through the floors between him and the impending Dalek invasion, keeping his mind on the goal at hand, focusing on his objective, the reason he was here at all - the one thing that mattered, for which he was going to give his life.
There were corners everywhere, long corridors and short ones that curved and twisted, and for that Ianto was grateful, because neither Jack, nor anybody else, was in the proper frame of mind to look down or around any of them. The feeling in his left leg, from the knee down, was becoming hazy, but it was a small price to pay - he was crouched out of sight, and he was where he needed to be. He was surprised, perhaps even impressed with himself - his heart was pounding wildly, but his breathing was steady, quiet. He barely made a sound, barely moved an inch. He’d only be found when there was nowhere else to look.
He saw Jack run past him from the tiny crook he’d taken up residence in, listened to the ominous approach of the Daleks as they followed behind. He flinched at the ear-splitting echo of single bullets ricocheting off the floor as Jack led them towards him, buying as much time as he could manage before he reached a dead end, trying to drag them along on the most inefficient chase he could fabricate. Ianto ached at the thought of this man, who wasn’t his Jack but was still Jack, willfully and knowingly facing his last moments with nothing but sheer devotion, nothing but courage and fortitude. A true hero, Captain Jack Harkness, and it tugged at his heart when the image of his own beloved Captain flooded his mind, merged with the younger, freer version with him now, falling forever at the hands of these verminous wretches, these terrifying domes of hate and rage.
“Exterminate!”
The sound was close, but it didn’t chill him like he thought it might.
He didn’t have to think as he saw the first one turn, heard the scuffle of Jack just barely making it down the hall to lead them further in, out of sight. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t second guess; all he did was stand, jaw set, and fight to keep the man he loved breathing just a few seconds longer. He set his eyes on the nearest Dalek, raised his arm and steadied his gun hand with its freer twin, taking aim just as the eyestalks swerved to damn him with their sights, as they swiveled in preparation to destroy him, to vaporize him, to erase him from existence.
His finger tightened as he squeezed the trigger, once, twice, and...
It seared, it burned, and he felt his teeth slice into his tongue, drawing the last of his blood as he crumpled into a heap on the floor, nothing behind his eyes but the flash, and then never-ending black.
--------------------------------------------------
In the time he’d known Jack, Ianto had contemplated what it must have felt like each time he came back to life on a number of separate occasions. He’d though that maybe it felt like drowning, or like an electrical shock, or maybe like deciding to wake up from a lucid dream. In truth, he discovered, it was like none of these, not entirely.
The sensation itself was almost orgasmic - painful, but exquisite, like losing one’s virginity to the only person imaginable, that perfect, special someone, who just so happened to conveniently be something of a closet sadist. Ianto had always thought that it was something of a choice; that Jack had to choose to return every time, but it wasn’t - it was forced, it was taken out of his hands, and it was the most glorious and terrifying release he’d ever known. Heat - burning, raging fire - coursed through his veins, and where he thought he’d be able to feel his heart start back up he was wrong; it was all just a scorching inferno, the sun behind his eyes, until it was nothing, and he was gasping, winded for no reason at all - everything was the same, he was unchanged, unharmed, and alive.
“It worked, then?”
Ianto looked around, spun first behind him, away from the voice, to the empty space where Jack’s body might have been but wasn’t, and then back to the source of the words; the Doctor, the hem of his jacket brushing the floor, peering down at him from the top of his nose.
Ianto breathed, wishing it felt a bit more like he had new lungs than just like every other breath he’d ever taken. “Like a charm,” he gasped, somehow unable to calm himself, his lungs contracting too fast, suffocating him too soon.
“You alright?” the Doctor asked, concern in his voice as he bent to help Ianto up from the floor.
“Yeah,” Ianto panted, trying to avoid trembling in the Doctor’s grasp. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“You’re sure?” The Doctor look unconvinced as he led them into the TARDIS, which was waiting beyond the next turn.
Ianto gathered himself, blinking back the oily dots of color floating behind his eyes and steadying, focusing, centering himself slowly but surely. “Positive.”
A sidelong glance was all he warranted as the Doctor settled him into a seat inside the TARDIS that he hadn’t recalled seeing before. “Right... well, then,” he waltzed to the controls and fiddled a bit whilst he spoke; “You took longer than Jack to come around, it seems. Probably for the best.” A loud hiss emitted from the core of the time machine, and the Doctor slapped his hand down dramatically on a round button before turning back to Ianto with a grin. “Back to the old grind?”
Ianto shrugged, uncertain but resigned, still marveling at the residual burn in his chest. “If you insist.”
His mind was a blur, unorganized and unfathomable as he sat, the Doctor blissfully quiet, leaving him to his thoughts. So he was immortal. The Undying Ianto Jones. And he hadn’t even wanted it for himself; he’d wanted it for a man who made googly eyes at every one but him, who fucked him, told him he wanted him, protected him and cared for him, but had never made a commitment. He was like a fucking teenage girl with a crush, who’d taken things to an extreme. And what if Jack didn’t care? What if he preferred being alone to being with Ianto forever? What if -
“Until next time, Ianto Jones.” The Doctor’s hand was extended into his bleary line of sight; it had either been much quicker coming back than leaving, or Ianto had been more distracted than he’d thought.
“Whenever that might be,” Ianto said with a sarcastic smirk, taking the proffered hand and tugging himself to his feet, following the Doctor to the door.
“Oh, sooner than you might think, I imagine,” the Doctor said, pursing his lips in thought, knowing something - many things - that Ianto couldn’t guess. “Plus, you’ve got all the time in the world now.”
Ianto let out a dry, hollow sort of laugh as he considered the Doctor’s words. “That’s so very strange, to think of it like that. I don’t feel any different.”
He was met with a soft, genuine smile from the Time Lord that only lasted a moment, but was all he really needed. “Well, I’m sure you’ll make the most of it.”
They were quiet, considering one another for a time, and Ianto was, in those strands of moments, perfectly aware of why Jack so adored this creature, his Doctor. “I’m glad to have met you, Ianto Jones,” the Doctor said fondly as he leaned against the side of the TARDIS.
“It’s been a privilege, Doctor,” Ianto said with feeling, holding out his hand to shake.
“Thank you.”
“So formal,” the Doctor laughed, gripping Ianto’s hand and pulling him in for a quick hug. “One day, when things are settled - quiet for a change - we’ll have a trip, a nice holiday where you learn how to properly relax. I suspect you don’t do it nearly enough.”
Ianto smiled knowingly, losing himself momentarily in hopes for the future; things that he’d always entertained privately, little fantasies that might now have some place in reality after all. “Maybe that’ll change now, though? All the time in the world, yeah?”
The Doctor nodded resolutely, grinning widely. “Right you are.” His eyes flicked to the moon, which was fading on the horizon as the line glowed with the sun at the opposite side. “Time to get back to your Sweet, I suspect,” he told Ianto with a deferential nod of his head. “No doubt he’ll have been wondering where you’ve run off to.”
Panic lit Ianto’s features for a moment as he considered Jack, and the indeterminate length of time he’d gone missing those months ago. “How long have I been gone?”
“Honestly,” the Doctor protested indignantly. “You still doubt my skills? After my prompt collection of you just now?”
Ianto’s severe glare in his direction prompted him to be more forthcoming. “Five hours. Give or take a few minutes to either side.”
Ianto sighed, somewhat relieved that the time had been so short, and inwardly impressed once more by the Doctor’s abilities, though also considering the actual likelihood that Jack had been worried about his whereabouts at all. “He’s probably still out, anyway.”
The Doctor scoffed before lowering his voice, his tone confidential, as if imparting unto Ianto some great token of wisdom. “Give him some credit, Ianto. He’s not a complete idiot.” He turned back to the TARDIS before tossing over his shoulder, louder, and with more gusto - “Remember. He loves you.”
Ianto smiled wanly, sucking on the inside of his lip as he dared to hope it was true. “Right.”
The Doctor gave him one last smirk before shooing him off towards the Plas. “Off you get.”
--------------------------------------------------
The cog door rolled shut and Ianto sighed, wondering why the gunmetal shade of his shirt seemed so foreign all of a sudden as he stepped into the low lighting of the Hub. He sighed, shrugging down his sleeves and rolling up the cuffs when he couldn’t pop the buttons through the holes. He ran his hands from his ears, down to his shoulders, wrapping his arms up around his stomach, and slowly creeping up to his chest, making sure everything was intact, that he was really standing there, physically unchanged, from the outside at least - that he had came and left as the same man, changed in so many ways, and yet still in so many ways the same. He wondered how Jack had managed, once he’d figured it out; how he’d felt, how he’d coped, how long it had taken to properly sink in...
A rustle from the top of the stairs caught his attention, sending him reaching for his gun, which had been left on the Gamestation, half-fried and useless. Cursing under his breath, he took stock of his surroundings, finding himself closest to Gwen’s work area. Knowing she kept a spare firearm at the very bottom of her filing drawer, he slowly eased it open, digging through the folders and loose papers until he curled his fingers around a small gun near the back corner, not daring the noise to check the cartridge, hoping that Gwen was smart enough to keep the damn thing loaded for emergencies such as this.
A shadow shifted from above, and Ianto slunk along the surface of the desk, training his gun on the area in question, where light had once streamed through from Jack’s office, and now was blacked out. “Show yourself!” he commanded loudly, deliberately switching off the safety and letting the click resound menacingly for the benefit of the intruder.
“Ianto?”
Ianto barely felt his hand release the grip, the sound of that voice, that voice, taking him completely by surprise as the gun fell to the floor. “Jack?” he breathed, barely daring to hope that, so soon after returning, he’d be able to see him, be able to hear him, feel him.
Jack flew down the stairs faster than Ianto could finish a blink, his footsteps pounding as he made his way rapidly closer, the low lighting sharpening the angles of his face, making him far paler than he was. “Fucking...” he trailed off, stopping when their torsos were almost flush against one another, running trembling hands up and down Ianto’s arms and breathing deep, heavy, as he slowly took in every inch of him, watching for any indication of pain, any damage, any hidden hurt that a less intense evaluation might miss. Ianto tried to keep himself still, knowing Jack well enough to be certain that this was a necessity for him, that they couldn’t speak or move, couldn’t continue onward in any capacity without his concerns being allayed. It was all he could do to keep from leaning into Jack, from shaking under his touch - after what he’d seen him do, after what he’d seen him suffer, after what seemed like a lifetime, he almost couldn’t believe that it was his Jack’s hand on him now, his Jack looking at him strangely as if he were the only person in the entire world.
Ianto wasn’t prepared when Jack leaned in to capture his lips, his kiss hard and hot and desperate, as if it had something to prove. Jack’s hands were pressing Ianto’s body hard against his chest, and Ianto could barely breathe, let alone think, even after Jack pulled away, framing Ianto’s face with his hands as he stared wide-eyed at his lover. “Thank God,” he exhaled, the tingle of his breath soft and wisp-like against Ianto’s cheek as he stoked his jawbone with his thumb, eyes shining perhaps a bit too brightly. “I was so scared.”
Ianto pulled back, startled when Jack’s hands stayed frozen against his skin, unwilling to let go. “What happened?” he asked softly, almost afraid of the answer that was burning in Jack’s gaze, the swirling fear permeated by a spike of new-found solace. He brought his hands to steady Jack on his shoulders, massaging lightly at the jut of bone, the tense muscle.
Jack swallowed, his lips cracking a bit as he squeezed his eyes shut hard. “I came back...” he began, directing his gaze elsewhere, somewhere to Ianto’s side, a blinking, colored light from one of the Hub’s many gadgets reflecting in his eye. “I’m sorry that I left at all, I didn’t think. I never think,” he stopped short, looking back to Ianto, his eyes set focused and harsh onto the younger man’s, his right hand sliding down, jerking as it wrapped around the side of Ianto’s neck delicately, touching as if Jack might break him with the slightest misstep, the whisper of a touch. “I’m sorry.”
“Jack,” Ianto tightened his grip on the older man - so much older - and tried to regain his attention, the Captain's eyes drifting again, lost in anxious possibilities that had not come to pass. “It’s all alright,” he murmured, bringing Jack’s chin to rest on his shoulder. “Calm down,” he soothed gently, trying to slow Jack’s labored breaths, Jack’s slight unsteadiness, the tremors that vibrated through his entire frame.
“No, no,” Jack shook his head, the motion halved by the impediment of Ianto’s neck on the backstroke. “It’s... you weren’t here,” Jack’s voice cracked on the word, and he cleared his throat hopefully, desperately before going on. “And when you didn’t answer your phone, I got worried,” his tongue darted out to the corner of his lips, something Ianto had learned over time meant that he was understating something to an extreme, lying to save them all some hidden difficulty. “I tried to find you, tried to track you down; called Gwen, tracked police records, called every hospital in the United fucking Kingdom...” He laughed nervously, his entire body slackening as his face grew drawn, thin, and he looked suddenly as if he were carrying the grief and sorrow of every single being in the whole of time and space upon his heart; Ianto ached to take that pain from him in any way he knew how, and perhaps a few he didn’t. “Everywhere I could think of,” Jack’s voice was almost inaudible, almost lost to his shallow breaths, the tautness of his vocal chords. “I started to...” he bit back a gasp; “I started to panic. I couldn’t even track you on CCTV, none of the GPS systems installed in your vehicle, nothing. You’d vanished.”
“I’m sorry,” Ianto drew him closer, kissing him soundly, though only for a short moment, leaving a sweet, tender nip on his lower lip as he drew back, grasping the hands still on his face and lacing his fingers into Jack’s. “I must have... lost service,” Ianto drew out, trying not to lose himself in the truths that tacked themselves to that deduction. “Have I been gone very long?”
“Too long for my liking,” Ianto smiled sympathetically as Jack flushed a bit, leaning in to kiss him again, this time with hunger and need, and Ianto reciprocated, thinking wildly that even when they broke apart for air, this wouldn’t have to end, not anymore. Not ever.
“I see,” Ianto ran his forefinger down the middle of Jack’s parted, swollen lips, feeling warmth flood him deliciously when Jack kissed at the pad of his finger as it trailed to his chin.
“I was afraid that... that...” Jack bowed his head, and brought one hand, still held tight in Ianto’s, to the center of his chest; Ianto’s own heart sped when he felt the flutter of Jack’s pulse almost caressing his palm through the skin.
“Shh...” Ianto begged him, bringing his other hand up to mirror Jack, to press his lover’s hand tight against his chest, to feel the heart that he held, that belonged to him, whether he knew it or not. “Breathe, Jack,” Ianto urged in low tones. “It’s alright. I’m here, we’re both here.”
“I was afraid I’d lost you,” Jack choked, hunching over a bit, trying to shield them both from everything, from nothing, from all that was too much for the moment in which they existed. “I was afraid I’d left, that I’d selfishly left when you needed me.” He pressed a kiss to Ianto’s hairline, the dampness cooled by his breaths as he held tighter to his young lover. “You, who’s been here whenever I so much as needed a smile...” His hand tightened around Ianto’s fingers, like a lifeline that could not be relinquished. “And that I’d lost you, because I was too blind to see you...”
Ianto was surprised, though he knew he shouldn’t have been, when he spotted the tears that were flooding Jack’s eyes, staining his cheeks and glistening on his lashes. “I can’t lose you, Ianto,” he hissed fiercely through sobs that he could no longer hold at bay. “Not you, too. I need you. More than anyone else.” He forced Ianto’s hand harder into his chest, so that Ianto could feel the very contour of the bone, every minute shift of his lungs beneath the frantic beat; Ianto, moved suddenly by the motion, merely crushed Jack’s hand closer to him in response. “I need you.”
Ianto wanted to say it, wanted to tell Jack that it wasn’t just him, convince him with all that he was that he needed Jack just as much, just as hopelessly, perhaps more than Jack needed him - that Ianto loved him, with everything he had, that Jack was his sun and moon, that he’d never known anything like what he felt for him before, that he wanted to spend forever with him; he wanted to tell Jack all of these things, but he didn’t get the chance as Jack’s knees gave out and he crumbled, barely caught by Ianto’s waiting arms as they settled in an unceremonious heap to the floor, the cool tiling harsh but insignificant; they were warm against each other.
“They all just leave,” Jack sobbed against his chest, the weight and guilt and devastation of everything and everyone - Grey, John, Owen, Tosh; the people, the innocents at Flat Holm, the Night Travelers, all of the things that he’d buried and had neglected to come to terms with - pouring out at once as Jack shook, and Ianto muttered nonsense into his hair in the attempt of feeling useful when the man he loved was lying broken in his arms. “They all die.”
With an unexpected jerk, Ianto was aware of the motion, the living, breathing organic matter of the Earth beneath them, all around them; the timelessness, the agelessness, and he felt connected to it, felt a part of it in a way he’d never experienced before - he was suddenly certain that forever was indeed a very, very long time. He only belatedly noticed that Jack’s breathing had evened, that he had surrendered to the unconscious sleep of utter exhaustion. Smiling sadly, but with a hope he hadn’t felt so intimately, so strongly, in many, many years, he clung tighter to Jack and whispered gently into him -
“Not everyone, Jack. Not everyone.”
______________________________________________________________________
Click Here For Part Two
Author Name: hitlikehammers
Recipient: hugglewolf
Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Summary: It’s not fair that Jack always has to lose what he loves, and Ianto is going to fix it. Post-Exit Wounds, mild crossover with Doctor Who.
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot. All recognizable elements of Torchwood and Doctor Who are copyright to RTD and the BBC; the title is borrowed from the Counting Crows song of the same name.
Warnings: Spoilers for Torchwood S1, S2; Doctor Who S1, mild S3. Intense hurt/comfort warning, character death, and extremely-emotional!Jack as well, if that’s not your cup of tea.
Word Count: 19,656
Author's Notes: For Huggle: This thing became something of a monster - the sort that takes on a life of its own and doesn’t stop until it gets what it wants. Reading through the prompts and guidelines, it was this plot bunny that simply would not die, no matter how hard I tried to formulate something more manageable. I did my best to work in at least the one prompt -Protective!Ianto - as thoroughly as possible; which, admittedly, resulted in an overly emotional Jack; but hey, those aren’t so bad, really. Anyway, I do hope that this is satisfactory enough on that account, and that you enjoy!
Betas: The ever-spectacular metaphysically and caralyn
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Part I
If there was one thing that Ianto Jones was positive about, one thing he knew for certain, it was that life was, and always would be, entirely and unabashedly unfair.
There had been a time - not a lifetime ago, but long enough for the details to be hazy in remembering - when he’d clung to that fact like a mantra. Life wasn’t fair, and therefore he didn’t have to accept the cards he’d been dealt, at least not quietly. He could be angry that the university that he’d wanted hadn’t wanted him, he could be disappointed when he was drafted into Torchwood as a low-level runner, he could be jealous when his girlfriend actually looked twice at the men who flirted with her. He could even blame being genuinely pissed off when he hadn’t been granted the dignity of burning, of going down with the ship at Canary Wharf as a side effect of life being unfair. It wasn’t until he tried pinning the pain of losing the first woman he’d ever really loved, and later the guilt of hatefully spurning the first man he’d ever really loved (and there was a difference, he was sure) that he began to suspect that life’s tendency towards playing dirty pool wasn’t so much a justification as it was a condition of simply living to breathe another breath.
And fuck all if it wasn’t a hard realization to come to.
And yet, sitting against the unforgiving concrete, spine aching and shoulders hunched, the chill of the evening breeze off the bay whistling through his flesh - his bones - like an elegy, he knew, in the clutches of that numb, that low, that it didn’t always have a reason, a why; that sometimes, it all went sideways, and bad things happened to good people and sure, it wasn’t fair, but that didn’t make it any less real. Unfair didn’t stop the world from turning, or the sun from setting. Unfair didn’t bring people back from the dead.
‘Well,’ Ianto thought ruefully, ‘sometimes it does.’
The feel of Jack’s fingers against his, like the flutter of a butterfly’s wings, softly pushing Ianto’s hand from his shoulder as he left the Hub without a word - or his coat, for that matter - was burning subtly against his flesh, still crawling beneath his fingernails some two hours and half-a-fifth of bourbon later. He tried to tell himself that he understood; they’d all suffered, they’d all lost, and it still hurt like hell. Different people grieved in different ways, and it wasn’t a personal slight that, where Ianto just wanted someone next to him, something warm to remind him of what life felt like, Jack needed his space, somewhere high above the noise and bustle, somewhere quiet and peaceful and undisturbed that felt nothing like life at all. He tried to convince himself that it didn’t bother him, not really, that Jack hadn’t stayed with him in bed, hadn’t woken up next to him even once in the past two weeks since they’d lost Owen and Tosh, since Jack had also lost his brother; that it didn’t really matter that, save for the brave face of barely-contained inner turmoil they both put on for one another, neither had so much as shed a tear in the other’s presence since it had happened. He tried to make himself believe that it was better like this, that he mourned in his own way, and that Jack did the same; that in this nondescript little outcropping, somewhere between his flat and the Hub, perched upon the bottom step of something, some building of vague significance, scratching against a pattern in the cement in a thoughtless, desperate attempt to erode the echo of Jack’s touch - that here, and now, things were better off.
But even the alcohol couldn’t convince him that the loneliness was actually worthwhile, some sort of healing in disguise.
The sound of the landing was covered up by the rush of blood behind his eardrums; he hadn’t even been looking in that direction until he caught the movement in his peripheral vision. His stomach dropped as he recognized the tall rail of a man sauntering towards him on light feet, glowing bright crimson in the moonlight, in the gentle mask of the street lamps. His face was unmistakable, from the one time he’d seen it live, a visual feed at Torchwood Tower during the siege, and from the countless consequent images, CCTV stills and grainy footage that outlined the thin face, the spiky hair, the glasses… the fucking glasses.
“Hello there,” a voice, one that suited well the appearance that had stopped just in front of his toes, greeted Ianto with a jovial sort of wariness; polite, warm almost, but not without guard, not without consideration. Ianto set the bottle he’d been grasping down at his side, fingers still wrapped around the neck as he leaned forward, balanced on his elbows as he stared up at the unwitting intruder through wet, clumping eyelashes, with a bleary gaze of indifference.
“Why are you here?”
The man blinked once, twice, and shifted on his feet, the rubber soles bending precariously near the arches as he bounced. “Pardon?”
“I asked you a question,” Ianto swallowed, straightening a bit as he tried to make his mouth less dry, tried to flood his throat with saliva. “What are you doing here? What do you want?”
Ianto knew that his unexpected visitor, now standing with an eyebrow arched high into his forehead and his arms crossed over his chest, deserved more respect, so far as a standard sense of etiquette was concerned. However, staring at the man, hazed by the cheap whiskey coursing through his veins, he couldn’t bring himself to care. “A bright blue police box just appeared before your eyes where it wasn’t just moments before. You saw it pop out of nowhere; you did, it’s in your eyes. You saw that, and the most pressing thing you can think to ask me is ‘What do I want’?”
Ianto rolled his eyes, scuffing the heels of his dress shoes into the ground grudgingly as he murmured, “Do I have to ask again?”
“You’re an interesting fellow,” the newcomer approached, eyeing Ianto shrewdly from behind his black frames, hands shoved in the pockets of his trousers and jutting outwards from the seams of each leg. “What’s your name?”
“Show me yours, I’ll show you mine,” Ianto shot with a devilish sneer - if the alcohol hadn’t helped him to forget, hadn’t numbed him, it had certainly loosened his tongue.
“And cheeky, too!” Ianto instinctively drew back as he was honed in upon by those intense chocolate eyes, suddenly very certain that he understood the power that this man possessed, why worlds feared him and entire galaxies sang his praises. “But if I had to put money on it,” Ianto watched as the gaze came level with his own as the other man stooped, the corners of his eyes narrowing in consideration, and not entirely without threat, “I’d say you don’t need me to show you anything. I’d say you already knew.”
“So it wasn’t all just rumors,” Ianto muttered quietly. “Quite the clever sod, you are, indeed.”
The Doctor either appreciated his sarcasm enough to let it slide, or was exercising mercy in response to Ianto’s smart comment, because he simply shrugged it off as if it didn’t exist. “Given our location, I’m going to pin you down as one of Jack’s happy brood.”
“And cleverer by the moment,” Ianto lauded him mockingly for only a second, barely sure what it was he was doing at all. “Amazing, Doctor. Simply amazing.”
“Ianto Jones, then, is it?” The Doctor stood, his long coat billowing as he did, swiping his glasses from his nose and tucking them in his pocket as he looked Ianto up and down with a careful eye. “You certainly don’t strike me as the medic, so I’m thinking you’re the archivist Jack was so fond of.”
“‘Fond’ is a relative term, I suspect,” Ianto cringed bitterly, grasping blindly at the bourbon sitting next to him and wishing the burn felt more intense against his throat as he tossed back a swig violently, trying his best to choke himself and failing terribly.
“Finding what you’re looking for in there?” The Doctor gestured vaguely at the bottle as it came to rest at Ianto’s right hip once more.
Smacking his lips, Ianto shook his head. “Unfortunately no.”
“Too bad,” The Doctor commented offhandedly, picking up the alcohol and swirling it in his hand for a moment, glancing quickly at the label and sniffing at the open mouth before replacing it next to Ianto, gracefully dropping down to sit on the other side of bottle. “Looks like you could use to have something go your way just now, hmm?”
“Like you wouldn’t believe.”
“My sympathies, Mr. Jones,” he paused, dipping his head to try and catch Ianto’s eye in between his hands, the cracks in his fingers as he framed his face, trying to mask his sorrow. “Or perhaps... my condolences?”
Ianto cleared his throat and turned away, shame burning in his cheeks for reasons he didn’t quite comprehend. “I don’t need your pity.”
“I’m afraid that wasn’t on the menu.”
Feeling the Time Lord’s hand settle comfortingly on his shoulder in silent solidarity made it all suddenly even worse, and he flinched at the contact, but refused to shrug it off - it was too tempting not to give into it, to imagine it was someone else…“I mean, it’s bad enough for me. It’s horrific,” he swallowed down a cry and cringed as it settled hard and heavy in the pit of his gut. “It’s...” he tried to steady his voice, “unbearable. But for Jack...” he trailed, his words cracking on a note too high for his vocal chords to hit.
“Speaking of whom...” the Doctor began, fingers flexing on Ianto’s shoulder blades, but Ianto didn’t hear him, could hear nothing.
“It’s got to be so much worse for him,” Ianto mused, grief and remorse and sheer feeling lacing every syllable, so bright and unmistakable that was almost blinding, almost too real, too inescapable to bear. “So much worse.”
“What’s worse?” The Doctor asked, his voice quiet, vibrating low, and Ianto was somewhat surprised to hear a note of genuine concern, of honest feeling in his question.
“We lost two of our team recently,” he spoke softly, as if the louder he admitted it, the more he gave it weight; the more unavoidable, undeniable it would become. “Tosh, she was brilliant...” So inadequate to describe her, really; just ‘brilliant.’ She had been remarkable. “She worked with our -”
“Toshiko?” The Doctor suddenly interjected. “Dr. Toshiko Sato?”
Ianto turned to look him in the eye. “Did you know her?”
A fond sort of sadness curled his lips as he replied, “We met in passing, once.”
Ianto nodded, leaving the topic to rest. “She died a hero’s death. So did Owen, the medic, as you so aptly termed him.” Images of the two of them - working, interacting, bickering, smiling, living - flooded Ianto’s mind as his throat grew tight. “They’re gone. And it hurts, because it’s only the three of us now. And I’m left alive,” he laughed humorlessly, flicking a pebble with his free hand, running the pads of his fingers consistently against the rutted lines in the pavement, the repetition comforting, grounding. “While everyone else just keeps dying... I’m still alive. Again.”
“I’m sorry.” Ianto was appreciative of the Doctor’s sympathy, he really was, but he couldn't bring himself to stop, to acknowledge it. He couldn’t notice it, else he’d be done for.
“And I can’t sleep at night, because I can’t stop thinking about them, about how their last moments had to have felt.” Thoughts of Tosh, feeling, seeing her own blood leave her and knowing that it was over, her very life seeping away from her drop by drop; Owen flooded with, with… it was too much. Far too much. “And then back in London, how those people must have felt, before they were taken. Converted,” he spat the word like the venom it was, teeth clenching around the end, hard steel to match the memories, scattered and fragmented though they were in his mind; bits of flesh and bone and blood. “My friends, my colleagues, and here, my family; but never me. I’m always spared. And sometimes, that hurts more.”
The Doctor’s arm made it’s way slowly, unannounced across Ianto’s back, cradling the younger man slightly towards him, and Ianto was a fool to let him, because it felt so good that it was painful; this man didn’t even know him and was caring for him in the smallest and most subtle of ways, but Jack; Jack who he loved, Jack who he’d do anything for… Jack was gone, lost to some rooftop or precipice, and had no one. “I think that always hurts more,” the Doctor whispered from somewhere behind his ear, the sound soft and lilting as they both stared off into nothingness.
“But then there’s Jack.”
Ianto felt the Time Lord at his side stiffen. “Ah, yes. The good old Captain.”
Anger, a bone deep rage that cut through the haze of grief and anguish, that shattered windows and tore down walls and consumed everything in a singular blaze of sheer, unadulterated heat consumed Ianto at that, the tone used to refer to Jack, his Jack; he couldn’t explain what spurred his next words - perhaps it was protectiveness, possessiveness, maybe it was the pain, the disillusionment, the fog of it all; in the end it didn’t matter. All that mattered was the fire behind his eyes when he spun on the Doctor and began to hiss at him in an undertone both clipped and brutal; “You made him like he is. You cursed him. It’s your fault, and yet you still toss him aside. Why can’t you keep him?”
The poison of his every word, the sting of every breath in between cut the alien like a knife, and Ianto secretly relished every small flinch of his features, every passing glimpse of remorse that he managed to draw from his companion, his competition. “Why can’t you let him stay with you, where he’s wanted and safe, and happy, where he doesn’t have to lose you, where he can count on you to be there, and not to change; well, not too often. Why can’t you love him like he needs to be loved? Or at least, let him love you, like he wants to? Like he needs to?”
Ianto stopped, breathing heavily, his heart hammering against his chest as his lungs heaved, almost concealing the soft sound of a reply that came from his side - almost sheepish, almost sad.
“He wasn’t happy with me.”
Ianto’s anger had propelled him thus far, and suddenly it was diminished; all that was left in its treacherous, destructive wake being an emptiness he’d hoped never to feel again. “What?”
“I offered him the option of staying,” the Doctor revealed with carefully placed indifference that bled into his words but not his demeanor. “Of traveling. He turned me down. Came back here.”
“But he’s not happy here, either.”
“Isn’t he?” The Doctor sounded unconvinced; flippant, almost bitter.
“He’s always hurting. It’s just behind everything - his laugh, his smile, his anger, it’s always there, that constant hurt.” Ianto could feel the hurt himself, every day. It was so much more pronounced now, though, after Owen and Tosh. Every glance from Jack seemed to ask how long he had left, how long until he too was gone. “He’s so lonely, Doctor. Always so alone. And it’s not fair.” With a shuttering breath, Ianto squeezed shut his eyes, a tear escaping under the lid and trailing down his cheek. Bowing his head and trying to choke down the sobs that wanted so desperately to find freedom, he pressed his hands to the cold ground between his knees, breathing deeply and feeling the solid cement under him, rubbing against the texture, finding the pattern he’d drawn comfort from before, the little carving that went against the grain of the concrete, etching it just that bit deeper with his fingernail.
“Well, aren’t you a piece of work,” the Doctor finally said, and Ianto was surprised to hear something like wonder in his tone, though he wasn’t brave enough to look and identify it for certain.
“What’s that you’re doing?” Ianto’s head snapped up on impulse, only to find himself nearly nose to nose with the Doctor, who was looming curiously over him, glasses once again in place.
“Doing?” Ianto asked incredulously, backing away a bit so that he could focus on the Doctor properly.
“With your hand there,” the Doctor gestured downwards, crouching to get a better look. “What’re you writing?”
“Oh,” Ianto trailed off, not putting up a fight when the Doctor lifted his hands and studied the ground beneath his fingertips. “I was just… tracing.”
A sharp intake of breath echoed from the Doctor, loud and opaque like a vision, each subsequent inhalation resounding like a drumbeat around them in the quiet evening mist. “Blimey…” the Doctor stood agape, staring down at two short words that meant nothing to Ianto, two words he didn’t even know he was making with his hands, really; two words that seemed silly, to him, but given the Doctor’s expression and the breathlessness in his parted lips, they were anything but.
Bad wolf. Sounded like a fucking cartoon. A nursery rhyme.
The Doctor sprung upwards without warning, startling Ianto into knocking over what was left of his bottle of bourbon. “I have an idea,” the Doctor intoned gravely, as if he were imparting the secrets of life and the universe in the space of a blink. “An idea, mind you,” he clarified with a wag of his finger and a glance above his spectacles. “Just a theory. No guarantees.”
“An idea?”
“Mmm,” he looked past Ianto at something, or perhaps at nothing, eyes glazing for a moment before squarely zeroing back upon the man in front of him. “Because you’re right, Ianto Jones. You’re very right. He shouldn’t have to be alone. He shouldn’t have to always lose everything, everyone. And it’s as much my fault as anyone’s, letting him live like this, letting him suffer, when I could help…” The Doctor was lost again, this time seemingly in himself, though Ianto could feel the tangible pain, the guilt peeling off of him as he contemplated, reminiscing with himself, murmuring softly after a moment, an afterthought: “Well, try to help…”
“He needs someone,” the Doctor finally gathered his wits again with a resolute nod, pacing back and forth before Ianto, who was teetering on the edge of the bottom stair. “Someone like him. Only there’s no one quite like him. And therefore, someone needs to become like him.” Ianto had barely processed this before the Doctor dove back in and continued to ramble on.
“And he needs the right someone. Someone who can be there for him, who can take care of him - stars above, someone who can put up with him!” The wide grin that speared the Time Lord’s face as he came to that point was contagious, and spread to Ianto in spite of himself. “He needs someone he can love without fear, for once; forever. He deserves something more than what he’s gotten, something more than, than... sloppy seconds.” The smile was gone, faded to a sort of melancholy regret, but in its stead, determination took hold. “He deserves to be loved.”
“I love him.” Ianto hadn’t meant to say it, wished desperately for a moment that he hadn’t, until the Doctor fixed him with a gentle smile, not just on his lips, but one that lit up his whole face. Under the sheen of that smile, he simply couldn’t regret divulging the truth.
“That I don’t doubt, not in the slightest,” the Doctor spoke softly, tenderly, the smile still in place. “But that’s not the important question.”
With a deep breath, hands restless in his front pockets and eyes staring hard into Ianto’s wide and confused face, the Doctor spoke slowly, deliberately, not wanting a single inflection out of place as he asked what needed to be asked, what had the power to change them all. “What I need to know is this, Ianto Jones,” he tilted his head, watching for something Ianto couldn’t guess at, inspecting him for things he didn’t know he was, didn’t think he had. “Would you die for him?”
“Without a second thought.” He’d expected the question to be harder.
“Right,” the Doctor exhaled the word heavily, as if it were difficult, and Ianto felt himself tense at the hardness, the lack of joy that suffused the Time Lord’s features as he turned around, running one hand through his hair, the other balanced on his hip “That’s what I thought.”
Ianto stood up, wincing at the strain on his muscles, having been still too long, and walked towards the Doctor, who turned back to face him when he heard Ianto’s approach. “Jack’s immortality was a mistake,” he said plainly, as if commenting on a nice crop of tomatoes, or a good deal at the corner market. “A sort of… after effect, of something bigger. And the most logical way to duplicate the effect is, of course, to replicate the circumstances exactly. Return to the scene of the crime.” The Doctor’s eyes were darting between Ianto’s and whatever lay to either side of him, choosing their fixation at random. He was nervous, and that in turn made Ianto closer to terrified as he sorted through the revelations, the information, trying to come up with a logical solution, a meaningful end product…
“Wait,” Ianto finally stopped, incredulous; disbelieving. “You want to, you want to make me…” he paused, dumbfounded, shaking his head. “You can take me there? Where it happened?”
“I can, hypothetically,” the Doctor noted clinically, but the meaning behind his words was clear, the intention gleaming plainly in his eyes. “Give or take a day or two.”
Ianto didn’t have to think. “Then take me. Please.”
The Doctor held out a hand, pressing it to Ianto’s chest to halt him as he drew closer. “There is every possibility that this won’t work.”
“I don’t care.”
The Doctor narrowed his eyes in scrutiny. “Don’t you?”
Ianto stopped, a million thoughts filtering through his head, a million scenarios, a million reasons to say no. None of them mattered. “I don’t care what I lose,” Ianto whispered, his voice steeled and unwavering. “I have to... I have to try.”
The Doctor watched him for what seemed like forever, studying him almost stoically before breaking into a toothy grin and declaring with an enthusiasm that sparked his whole being out from the depths of the blackest night into the blaze of a supernova; “Then hop to it, Ianto Jones. You’re about to become immortal.”
______________________________________________________________________
Part II
It all moved very fast, once he’d set foot in the TARDIS.
“You can’t draw attention to yourself.”
Ianto was still acclimating himself to the idea that his feet weren’t on the ground, not really, even though they were decidedly planted on the grating of the floor. “Yes, I’ve quite got that part.”
“You can’t let him know who you are.”
Ianto nodded, staring up at the ceiling of the TARDIS, studying its intricacies and spinning a bit, shuffling his feet around in a circle as he gazed up in wonder. “Yes, I know.”
“You’re going to go in, and you have to go up to the 499th floor. No higher, no lower,” the Doctor threw his weight against a sequence of levers attached to the central console. “Do what you have to, but get there, and stay there,” he paused, seemingly evaluating the settings he’d completed and shooting a meaningful glance over his shoulder at Ianto. “You’re clever, you’ll weasel your way through.”
“499, yes,” Ianto confirmed, now watching the fluctuating column at the very center of the control panel with a distracted sort of intensity. “Got that.”
“And you have to be in front of him. You have to die first.”
Ianto’s attention was finally ripped from his surroundings of green and gold and amber, eyes darting immediately to the Doctor, filled with speculation. “Why?”
The Doctor let out a slow breath through pursed lips, fixing Ianto with a sympathetic stare. “Jack’s motivated by pain. If he happens to see you die, it’ll be less likely that the consecutive events will change dramatically enough to matter.”
Ianto steeled himself against whatever nagging fears still swam near the back of his consciousness; they were growing stronger, the impulse to balk threatening to overwhelm him as the bile of nausea rose in his esophagus, and it was getting harder to ignore it without effort. “Right.”
“Stay out of sight until he turns up,” the Doctor continued without commenting on the subtle crack in Ianto’s voice, and for that, the younger man was grateful. “He’ll be all blazing guns and shouting, if I know him; he’ll lead the Daleks straight for you. Let him run, but make a stand in front of him first, before they take him,” he twisted a small dial, smiling in grim satisfaction before turning to lean back against the panel he’d been fiddling with. “You armed?”
Ianto wordlessly reached into his waistband, where he’d carelessly stashed a small piece before leaving the Hub, not thinking much in terms of practicality when he’d done so. His eyes traveled the length of the grip mournfully as the Doctor let a bark of sardonic laughter escape him from across the way.
“That’s nothing against a Dalek.”
Ianto shrugged, stuffing the gun back where it belonged, hidden and cold against his side “From where I’m sitting, it doesn’t much matter, does it?”
The Doctor rested his weight more fully on the machinery behind him, legs crossed at the ankles so that his trainers pointed to the sky. “You’re sure about this?”
“Yeah,” Ianto swallowed, trying to calm his stomach, his pulse. He couldn’t quite manage to look the Doctor in the eye. “Yeah, I’m sure.”
“He loves you, y’know.”
Ianto smiled sadly at the tops of his shoes, noting the dusting of dirt on the hems of his trousers. “You don’t have to tell me that to make me go through with it. I’ve already come this far.”
“No,” the Doctor shook his head, pushing himself to his feet and walking slowly towards Ianto. “No, that’s not what I meant.”
He was only a breath away from the other man, his mouth opening and closing many times, his hand coming up, hovering over Ianto’s shoulder, his chest, his arm until it fell again, and he finally spoke. “I... it has to be you. He could stay with me forever, if he wanted, but he’d never be happy, not anymore.” This time the Doctor raised his palm to Ianto’s sternum, his eyes grave as he pressed against his chest meaningfully. “He needs you. He cares about you. And if I know Jack, and I did once...” A gentle, reminiscent smile crossed his features and he paused for a moment before picking back up; “He does love you, very much.” Sliding his hand to Ianto’s left shoulder, and bringing the other to rest at his right, he squeezed gently in emphasis, a gleam shimmering in the corner of his eye. “Trust me, Ianto Jones; I am very rarely wrong.”
Ianto tried to let the Doctor’s certainty fill him with resolution, with his own brand of sureness, but it was a moot point. “Here’s hoping, yeah?” he smiled weakly, his gut wrenching as he tried to fight the butterflies in the pit of his stomach, tried to tell himself that it didn’t matter, that it had never mattered if Jack loved him back, because Ianto was head over heels and didn’t have anyone to pull him right-side-up either way.
He barely noticed that everything was much more still around him, couldn’t tell that they had landed where they needed to be until the Doctor had gently herded him to the door, his face set and his expression as reassuring as Ianto figured he could manage, which was all he could ask for, really.
“One more thing,” the Doctor shifted uneasily as he cracked open the TARDIS doors, avoiding Ianto’s gaze. “Jack... Jack ended up alone, after this. He was alone for a very long time,” Ianto watched as the Doctor’s Adam’s apple bobbed before he continued. “He was stranded, lost. Did he ever tell you?”
Not in words, he was far too proud for that. But Ianto could tell that Jack had been lost, had been abandoned more than once in his many years; the pain, the suspicion, the trust (or lack thereof), the inability to commit, the fear... he’d never said it out loud, but he’d never had to. “Not explicitly, no.”
The Doctor caught his gaze accidentally as he shook his head, his face genuinely remorseful, his eyes filled to the brim with true, honest regret. “It has to happen exactly the same way,” he spoke soft, but earnest. “He has to be alone; you can’t change his timeline, you can’t interfere.”
Ianto drew a sharp breath as pain spiked cold in his chest; he had the chance to help Jack, to save him, to spare him incalculable pain... “Doctor, I -”
“You cannot spare him, Ianto,” the Doctor’s voice was strained, a tight sort of hiss as he gripped Ianto’s biceps and shook him slightly, just once, as if trying to wake them both up, trying to save them both from the consuming still. “And neither can I. It’ll tempt you, I’m sure of it. Especially if I can’t get back directly after, if there’s time between. But you must stay away from him, you must leave him here. You understand, yes?” The Doctor’s eyes were pleading, searching Ianto’s for a promise that would kill them both; knowing that he was asking the unthinkable, that Ianto would feel it so much more.
Ianto was already feeling it.
“Yes,” he thought his throat might be closing in around that word, that disgusting word, that single three-letter mockery that would damn Jack to some of the worst torment he would ever know - rejection, uncertainty, confusion, and on top of it all, no one to face it with him. “Yes, I understand.”
The Doctor’s eyes simply bore into him as he swung open the doors of his time machine, opening the TARDIS and releasing Ianto into the wild, a mother robin waiting for the last clinging youngling to flee the nest, stripping Ianto of all safety, all solid ground beneath his feet. “Then good luck, Ianto Jones.”
Ianto stepped out, eyes shut tight, trying to imagine Jack in his position, trying to emulate his confidence, trying to remember that it was him, that very same man, that Ianto was doing this for at all, reminding himself that this was worth it; letting his heart remind him.
“Oh, and watch out for the Anne Droid!”
Ianto turned quickly, eyes snapping open at the distant sounding shout from behind him. “The what?”
But there was only a shadow of the Doctor’s smile caught in between the closing TARDIS doors before he was alone, the sinisterly comforting woosh of the time machine’s departure resonating in his throat as he swallowed.
And so it came to pass that Ianto Jones was left to die.
--------------------------------------------------
The rumble of voices, of movement, and the impending cloud that preceded death on a very regular basis was resonating, permeating, and Ianto could feel it shiver in his very blood.
It was a fact of his life, his very genetic code, he suspected, that he passionately disliked crowds. They made him feel claustrophobic and suddenly significant, each breath he took stealing precious oxygen from the hundreds of people sandwiched in next to him, and he hated that feeling.
He couldn’t have determined where the hand that had grabbed him had come from exactly, taking him by surprise and pulling him towards the lift from where he’d been perched at a view-window on the 329th Level, somewhere between what he’d deduced to be equally uncommon versions of the sets for ‘Who’s Line Is It Anyway?’ (which he’d watched from the shadows for the past day and a half with a sickened fascination as the points were tallied and the Hoedown executed with consecutive vaporizations after each contestant’s verse was complete) and what had to be ‘QI,’ given the robot seated at the desk that looked strikingly like a shiny, silver Stephen Fry. He’d been watching ships, Dalek ships, from what the Doctor had been willing to divulge, as they appeared in the sky out of nowhere, and he’d been waiting for the last of the stragglers to take their leave and let him make his way unnoticed to the levels higher up. But with a flurry of footsteps, a fist grasped tight around his forearm, and an unidentifiable shout of “We’re evacuatin’! Come on!” from the moving mass of panicked people, he hadn’t stood a chance.
Therefore, he didn’t know how he’d managed to allow himself to get caught up in the crowd, but he had nonetheless, and now he was staring vacantly at the triple rings glaring hard and sleek from above him on the wall, musing as to how he was going to manage to get back up nearly five hundred levels in time to make this work.
His answer didn’t take long in coming, his savior in black and white, in flesh and blood, in...
Fucking hell, was he wearing leather?
Ianto swallowed hard, barely registering the voice, strangely the same voice he’d known for so long, coming out of this fiery man who had appeared suddenly and taken control of the chaos with his tough talk, his hard eyes, and his huge gun.
No, no. That wasn’t leather. That couldn’t be leather, Ianto was sure of it, as he stared for a long moment, and then another, at the clench and release of Jack’s glorious arse beneath the material. No, whatever that was, it was something altogether better than leather.
It was Jack, alright; this was Jack, and altogether a different Jack than he knew, though so very much the same it almost hurt to look at him, almost hurt to know that he was about to die, to know that he would die and die and die, continuously and without end, until the very last days of the universe. It hurt to hear his accent, the way the words fell from his tongue just so, in just the right cadence, and not see the greatcoat. He looked so sure, so light and unbound, standing there, weight shifted to one foot, hips cocked and crotch jutted almost naturally, as if anyone half as beautiful as him could stand just the same without a second thought.
Ianto found himself entranced, not at all processing the words, the warning streaming from Jack’s lips as he trailed up the toned, bare skin of his arms, the muscles proud and obvious in hard, twining lines, the veins prominent - more so than they ever were now, so often covered by his sleeves. He licked his lips as he watched the prominent bulge in the front of Jack’s trousers, flicked his eyes down the shiny material hugging Jack’s inner thighs, missing his Jack, and his simple, outdated wardrobe, his lighter, shaggier hair, and his deeper, more soulful eyes more desperately with every passing second spent evaluating this former version of his beloved.
The shots fired into the air startled him, though not enough to prevent a passing glance at the ripple of Jack’s muscles as he braced against the kick of each bullet. “One last time!” He shouted, and Ianto felt himself shiver at the power, the authority - the strange and misplaced innocence behind it that made no sense; Jack was no novice, even this Jack, he knew that much, but somehow he seemed so much more honest, more unfettered, less obligated - he looked excited and terrified, a sudden youth taking him as his features flooded with rage and he stared into the soul of every single man and woman assembled before him. “Any more volunteers?”
“There’s an army about to invade this station,” he continued, and Ianto found himself surveying the frightened, hunched forms of disbelievers just as Jack did, but with less intensity. They were petrified, and they were willing to cling to the idea that what didn’t exist couldn’t hurt them as a result. Ianto pitied them, wished there was something he could do, wished he could convince them, save them - he remembered what it was like to be like them, and it made his chest sore as he recalled the helplessness, watched their faces clenched in true fear. They weren’t bad people, he was sure of it - not all of them, at least. Misguided, naive... but that wasn’t a fate deserving of death. “I need every last citizen to mount a defense.”
The subtle resignation in Jack’s stance, in his voice, told Ianto that he was feeling the exact same thing. The rest of his words were drowned out by Ianto’s pulse hammering in his ears, his heart desperate to reach out to Jack and comfort him, to let him know that it wasn’t all in vain, that it would be alright, that he would be alright, that he would be loved, even if it took centuries. He would be loved wholly and truly, above all reason and comprehension; loved more than life, if only once. Ianto had seen to that much.
He watched as the gathered crowd was threatened, guilted appropriately, and Ianto could not deny it - he was entrancing, this mortal Jack, this Jack who had the same bravado but none of the loneliness, none of the sorrow - this Jack who was storming headfirst towards a death he didn’t know he’d be able to come back from. He was headstrong and foolish in a way that was entirely purposeful - he knew he was reckless, but he would have it no other way - and it was a recklessness so different from his Jack, who was careless with his life because he felt it was his duty, his own sort of sacred charge; he felt himself expendable by nature. This Jack, though... this Jack was brimming with the kind of hope that Ianto had only just learned to let go of, and sometimes desperately wanted back.
In that moment, Ianto had the strangest feeling that, given the opportunity, he could build a different sort of relationship with this man, this very finite Jack Harkness; a relationship in which he could protect, in which he could lead once in a while, something steady and definite in which they were both on even footing, both equals, both limited and bound by the same constraints, the same very human mortality and boundaries. He could be what this Jack needed.
Strangely, he knew he didn’t want that. Not at all.
He felt suddenly stable, suddenly sure and sound and ready, ready to take on the world, as a sense of peace spread through him from limb to limb. He didn’t want this Jack. He didn’t want any Jack but his own. He didn’t want anyone else, just Captain Jack Harkness, stranded in the 21st century, saving a primitive human race from the big bad universe that sought to take it by surprise, protecting what he held dear and suffering the consequences of that care, that love, learning to live with the heartbreak like a second skin. Those beautiful eyes, that beautiful soul; that was all he wanted - the darkness and the light, the pain and the wonder, anything and everything about that singular man, who he was in that time, who he had become, the good and the bad, the impossibility and the tangibility, the truth and the lies, all wrapped into one.
Jack Harkness was his world, and he refused to be ashamed of that. And now, Ianto finally had the opportunity to prove it.
“Don’t make a sound. Let’s go.”
That was his cue - and if he closed his eyes, he could see his Jack beckoning, and Ianto smiled at the image in his mind as he readied himself for battle.
He slipped quietly behind them, hugging to the walls, sliding with his back against the metal, stealing out after them once the rest of the huddled refugees (soon to be casualties, Ianto thought with a frown) had taken back up the argument of whether the Daleks were really about to storm their inconsequential little Gamestation.
He followed Jack for a time, as far as when he paused with the rest of his small but determined group of rebels, standing fast for the sake of humanity; he couldn’t bear the false hope he was filling them with, spouting something reassuring about bastic bullets that wouldn’t save anyone, his frown deepening but gone before anyone could notice when the fleet accelerated, declaring war with the sort of veiled reluctance he’d always spoken of things like retconning innocent victims, or reporting another person gone missing to the Rift. He couldn’t handle watching Jack, a man who would become his Jack some day, suffer through lying to these people, bolstering them up so that their last moments would be false where the truth would have only led them to despair.
It was something his Jack would have done, as well.
Ianto kept climbing, the lift stopping finally, after a lifetime, at Level 499. He alighted carefully, trying to ignore the sounds of battle seeping through the floors between him and the impending Dalek invasion, keeping his mind on the goal at hand, focusing on his objective, the reason he was here at all - the one thing that mattered, for which he was going to give his life.
There were corners everywhere, long corridors and short ones that curved and twisted, and for that Ianto was grateful, because neither Jack, nor anybody else, was in the proper frame of mind to look down or around any of them. The feeling in his left leg, from the knee down, was becoming hazy, but it was a small price to pay - he was crouched out of sight, and he was where he needed to be. He was surprised, perhaps even impressed with himself - his heart was pounding wildly, but his breathing was steady, quiet. He barely made a sound, barely moved an inch. He’d only be found when there was nowhere else to look.
He saw Jack run past him from the tiny crook he’d taken up residence in, listened to the ominous approach of the Daleks as they followed behind. He flinched at the ear-splitting echo of single bullets ricocheting off the floor as Jack led them towards him, buying as much time as he could manage before he reached a dead end, trying to drag them along on the most inefficient chase he could fabricate. Ianto ached at the thought of this man, who wasn’t his Jack but was still Jack, willfully and knowingly facing his last moments with nothing but sheer devotion, nothing but courage and fortitude. A true hero, Captain Jack Harkness, and it tugged at his heart when the image of his own beloved Captain flooded his mind, merged with the younger, freer version with him now, falling forever at the hands of these verminous wretches, these terrifying domes of hate and rage.
“Exterminate!”
The sound was close, but it didn’t chill him like he thought it might.
He didn’t have to think as he saw the first one turn, heard the scuffle of Jack just barely making it down the hall to lead them further in, out of sight. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t second guess; all he did was stand, jaw set, and fight to keep the man he loved breathing just a few seconds longer. He set his eyes on the nearest Dalek, raised his arm and steadied his gun hand with its freer twin, taking aim just as the eyestalks swerved to damn him with their sights, as they swiveled in preparation to destroy him, to vaporize him, to erase him from existence.
His finger tightened as he squeezed the trigger, once, twice, and...
It seared, it burned, and he felt his teeth slice into his tongue, drawing the last of his blood as he crumpled into a heap on the floor, nothing behind his eyes but the flash, and then never-ending black.
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In the time he’d known Jack, Ianto had contemplated what it must have felt like each time he came back to life on a number of separate occasions. He’d though that maybe it felt like drowning, or like an electrical shock, or maybe like deciding to wake up from a lucid dream. In truth, he discovered, it was like none of these, not entirely.
The sensation itself was almost orgasmic - painful, but exquisite, like losing one’s virginity to the only person imaginable, that perfect, special someone, who just so happened to conveniently be something of a closet sadist. Ianto had always thought that it was something of a choice; that Jack had to choose to return every time, but it wasn’t - it was forced, it was taken out of his hands, and it was the most glorious and terrifying release he’d ever known. Heat - burning, raging fire - coursed through his veins, and where he thought he’d be able to feel his heart start back up he was wrong; it was all just a scorching inferno, the sun behind his eyes, until it was nothing, and he was gasping, winded for no reason at all - everything was the same, he was unchanged, unharmed, and alive.
“It worked, then?”
Ianto looked around, spun first behind him, away from the voice, to the empty space where Jack’s body might have been but wasn’t, and then back to the source of the words; the Doctor, the hem of his jacket brushing the floor, peering down at him from the top of his nose.
Ianto breathed, wishing it felt a bit more like he had new lungs than just like every other breath he’d ever taken. “Like a charm,” he gasped, somehow unable to calm himself, his lungs contracting too fast, suffocating him too soon.
“You alright?” the Doctor asked, concern in his voice as he bent to help Ianto up from the floor.
“Yeah,” Ianto panted, trying to avoid trembling in the Doctor’s grasp. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“You’re sure?” The Doctor look unconvinced as he led them into the TARDIS, which was waiting beyond the next turn.
Ianto gathered himself, blinking back the oily dots of color floating behind his eyes and steadying, focusing, centering himself slowly but surely. “Positive.”
A sidelong glance was all he warranted as the Doctor settled him into a seat inside the TARDIS that he hadn’t recalled seeing before. “Right... well, then,” he waltzed to the controls and fiddled a bit whilst he spoke; “You took longer than Jack to come around, it seems. Probably for the best.” A loud hiss emitted from the core of the time machine, and the Doctor slapped his hand down dramatically on a round button before turning back to Ianto with a grin. “Back to the old grind?”
Ianto shrugged, uncertain but resigned, still marveling at the residual burn in his chest. “If you insist.”
His mind was a blur, unorganized and unfathomable as he sat, the Doctor blissfully quiet, leaving him to his thoughts. So he was immortal. The Undying Ianto Jones. And he hadn’t even wanted it for himself; he’d wanted it for a man who made googly eyes at every one but him, who fucked him, told him he wanted him, protected him and cared for him, but had never made a commitment. He was like a fucking teenage girl with a crush, who’d taken things to an extreme. And what if Jack didn’t care? What if he preferred being alone to being with Ianto forever? What if -
“Until next time, Ianto Jones.” The Doctor’s hand was extended into his bleary line of sight; it had either been much quicker coming back than leaving, or Ianto had been more distracted than he’d thought.
“Whenever that might be,” Ianto said with a sarcastic smirk, taking the proffered hand and tugging himself to his feet, following the Doctor to the door.
“Oh, sooner than you might think, I imagine,” the Doctor said, pursing his lips in thought, knowing something - many things - that Ianto couldn’t guess. “Plus, you’ve got all the time in the world now.”
Ianto let out a dry, hollow sort of laugh as he considered the Doctor’s words. “That’s so very strange, to think of it like that. I don’t feel any different.”
He was met with a soft, genuine smile from the Time Lord that only lasted a moment, but was all he really needed. “Well, I’m sure you’ll make the most of it.”
They were quiet, considering one another for a time, and Ianto was, in those strands of moments, perfectly aware of why Jack so adored this creature, his Doctor. “I’m glad to have met you, Ianto Jones,” the Doctor said fondly as he leaned against the side of the TARDIS.
“It’s been a privilege, Doctor,” Ianto said with feeling, holding out his hand to shake.
“Thank you.”
“So formal,” the Doctor laughed, gripping Ianto’s hand and pulling him in for a quick hug. “One day, when things are settled - quiet for a change - we’ll have a trip, a nice holiday where you learn how to properly relax. I suspect you don’t do it nearly enough.”
Ianto smiled knowingly, losing himself momentarily in hopes for the future; things that he’d always entertained privately, little fantasies that might now have some place in reality after all. “Maybe that’ll change now, though? All the time in the world, yeah?”
The Doctor nodded resolutely, grinning widely. “Right you are.” His eyes flicked to the moon, which was fading on the horizon as the line glowed with the sun at the opposite side. “Time to get back to your Sweet, I suspect,” he told Ianto with a deferential nod of his head. “No doubt he’ll have been wondering where you’ve run off to.”
Panic lit Ianto’s features for a moment as he considered Jack, and the indeterminate length of time he’d gone missing those months ago. “How long have I been gone?”
“Honestly,” the Doctor protested indignantly. “You still doubt my skills? After my prompt collection of you just now?”
Ianto’s severe glare in his direction prompted him to be more forthcoming. “Five hours. Give or take a few minutes to either side.”
Ianto sighed, somewhat relieved that the time had been so short, and inwardly impressed once more by the Doctor’s abilities, though also considering the actual likelihood that Jack had been worried about his whereabouts at all. “He’s probably still out, anyway.”
The Doctor scoffed before lowering his voice, his tone confidential, as if imparting unto Ianto some great token of wisdom. “Give him some credit, Ianto. He’s not a complete idiot.” He turned back to the TARDIS before tossing over his shoulder, louder, and with more gusto - “Remember. He loves you.”
Ianto smiled wanly, sucking on the inside of his lip as he dared to hope it was true. “Right.”
The Doctor gave him one last smirk before shooing him off towards the Plas. “Off you get.”
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The cog door rolled shut and Ianto sighed, wondering why the gunmetal shade of his shirt seemed so foreign all of a sudden as he stepped into the low lighting of the Hub. He sighed, shrugging down his sleeves and rolling up the cuffs when he couldn’t pop the buttons through the holes. He ran his hands from his ears, down to his shoulders, wrapping his arms up around his stomach, and slowly creeping up to his chest, making sure everything was intact, that he was really standing there, physically unchanged, from the outside at least - that he had came and left as the same man, changed in so many ways, and yet still in so many ways the same. He wondered how Jack had managed, once he’d figured it out; how he’d felt, how he’d coped, how long it had taken to properly sink in...
A rustle from the top of the stairs caught his attention, sending him reaching for his gun, which had been left on the Gamestation, half-fried and useless. Cursing under his breath, he took stock of his surroundings, finding himself closest to Gwen’s work area. Knowing she kept a spare firearm at the very bottom of her filing drawer, he slowly eased it open, digging through the folders and loose papers until he curled his fingers around a small gun near the back corner, not daring the noise to check the cartridge, hoping that Gwen was smart enough to keep the damn thing loaded for emergencies such as this.
A shadow shifted from above, and Ianto slunk along the surface of the desk, training his gun on the area in question, where light had once streamed through from Jack’s office, and now was blacked out. “Show yourself!” he commanded loudly, deliberately switching off the safety and letting the click resound menacingly for the benefit of the intruder.
“Ianto?”
Ianto barely felt his hand release the grip, the sound of that voice, that voice, taking him completely by surprise as the gun fell to the floor. “Jack?” he breathed, barely daring to hope that, so soon after returning, he’d be able to see him, be able to hear him, feel him.
Jack flew down the stairs faster than Ianto could finish a blink, his footsteps pounding as he made his way rapidly closer, the low lighting sharpening the angles of his face, making him far paler than he was. “Fucking...” he trailed off, stopping when their torsos were almost flush against one another, running trembling hands up and down Ianto’s arms and breathing deep, heavy, as he slowly took in every inch of him, watching for any indication of pain, any damage, any hidden hurt that a less intense evaluation might miss. Ianto tried to keep himself still, knowing Jack well enough to be certain that this was a necessity for him, that they couldn’t speak or move, couldn’t continue onward in any capacity without his concerns being allayed. It was all he could do to keep from leaning into Jack, from shaking under his touch - after what he’d seen him do, after what he’d seen him suffer, after what seemed like a lifetime, he almost couldn’t believe that it was his Jack’s hand on him now, his Jack looking at him strangely as if he were the only person in the entire world.
Ianto wasn’t prepared when Jack leaned in to capture his lips, his kiss hard and hot and desperate, as if it had something to prove. Jack’s hands were pressing Ianto’s body hard against his chest, and Ianto could barely breathe, let alone think, even after Jack pulled away, framing Ianto’s face with his hands as he stared wide-eyed at his lover. “Thank God,” he exhaled, the tingle of his breath soft and wisp-like against Ianto’s cheek as he stoked his jawbone with his thumb, eyes shining perhaps a bit too brightly. “I was so scared.”
Ianto pulled back, startled when Jack’s hands stayed frozen against his skin, unwilling to let go. “What happened?” he asked softly, almost afraid of the answer that was burning in Jack’s gaze, the swirling fear permeated by a spike of new-found solace. He brought his hands to steady Jack on his shoulders, massaging lightly at the jut of bone, the tense muscle.
Jack swallowed, his lips cracking a bit as he squeezed his eyes shut hard. “I came back...” he began, directing his gaze elsewhere, somewhere to Ianto’s side, a blinking, colored light from one of the Hub’s many gadgets reflecting in his eye. “I’m sorry that I left at all, I didn’t think. I never think,” he stopped short, looking back to Ianto, his eyes set focused and harsh onto the younger man’s, his right hand sliding down, jerking as it wrapped around the side of Ianto’s neck delicately, touching as if Jack might break him with the slightest misstep, the whisper of a touch. “I’m sorry.”
“Jack,” Ianto tightened his grip on the older man - so much older - and tried to regain his attention, the Captain's eyes drifting again, lost in anxious possibilities that had not come to pass. “It’s all alright,” he murmured, bringing Jack’s chin to rest on his shoulder. “Calm down,” he soothed gently, trying to slow Jack’s labored breaths, Jack’s slight unsteadiness, the tremors that vibrated through his entire frame.
“No, no,” Jack shook his head, the motion halved by the impediment of Ianto’s neck on the backstroke. “It’s... you weren’t here,” Jack’s voice cracked on the word, and he cleared his throat hopefully, desperately before going on. “And when you didn’t answer your phone, I got worried,” his tongue darted out to the corner of his lips, something Ianto had learned over time meant that he was understating something to an extreme, lying to save them all some hidden difficulty. “I tried to find you, tried to track you down; called Gwen, tracked police records, called every hospital in the United fucking Kingdom...” He laughed nervously, his entire body slackening as his face grew drawn, thin, and he looked suddenly as if he were carrying the grief and sorrow of every single being in the whole of time and space upon his heart; Ianto ached to take that pain from him in any way he knew how, and perhaps a few he didn’t. “Everywhere I could think of,” Jack’s voice was almost inaudible, almost lost to his shallow breaths, the tautness of his vocal chords. “I started to...” he bit back a gasp; “I started to panic. I couldn’t even track you on CCTV, none of the GPS systems installed in your vehicle, nothing. You’d vanished.”
“I’m sorry,” Ianto drew him closer, kissing him soundly, though only for a short moment, leaving a sweet, tender nip on his lower lip as he drew back, grasping the hands still on his face and lacing his fingers into Jack’s. “I must have... lost service,” Ianto drew out, trying not to lose himself in the truths that tacked themselves to that deduction. “Have I been gone very long?”
“Too long for my liking,” Ianto smiled sympathetically as Jack flushed a bit, leaning in to kiss him again, this time with hunger and need, and Ianto reciprocated, thinking wildly that even when they broke apart for air, this wouldn’t have to end, not anymore. Not ever.
“I see,” Ianto ran his forefinger down the middle of Jack’s parted, swollen lips, feeling warmth flood him deliciously when Jack kissed at the pad of his finger as it trailed to his chin.
“I was afraid that... that...” Jack bowed his head, and brought one hand, still held tight in Ianto’s, to the center of his chest; Ianto’s own heart sped when he felt the flutter of Jack’s pulse almost caressing his palm through the skin.
“Shh...” Ianto begged him, bringing his other hand up to mirror Jack, to press his lover’s hand tight against his chest, to feel the heart that he held, that belonged to him, whether he knew it or not. “Breathe, Jack,” Ianto urged in low tones. “It’s alright. I’m here, we’re both here.”
“I was afraid I’d lost you,” Jack choked, hunching over a bit, trying to shield them both from everything, from nothing, from all that was too much for the moment in which they existed. “I was afraid I’d left, that I’d selfishly left when you needed me.” He pressed a kiss to Ianto’s hairline, the dampness cooled by his breaths as he held tighter to his young lover. “You, who’s been here whenever I so much as needed a smile...” His hand tightened around Ianto’s fingers, like a lifeline that could not be relinquished. “And that I’d lost you, because I was too blind to see you...”
Ianto was surprised, though he knew he shouldn’t have been, when he spotted the tears that were flooding Jack’s eyes, staining his cheeks and glistening on his lashes. “I can’t lose you, Ianto,” he hissed fiercely through sobs that he could no longer hold at bay. “Not you, too. I need you. More than anyone else.” He forced Ianto’s hand harder into his chest, so that Ianto could feel the very contour of the bone, every minute shift of his lungs beneath the frantic beat; Ianto, moved suddenly by the motion, merely crushed Jack’s hand closer to him in response. “I need you.”
Ianto wanted to say it, wanted to tell Jack that it wasn’t just him, convince him with all that he was that he needed Jack just as much, just as hopelessly, perhaps more than Jack needed him - that Ianto loved him, with everything he had, that Jack was his sun and moon, that he’d never known anything like what he felt for him before, that he wanted to spend forever with him; he wanted to tell Jack all of these things, but he didn’t get the chance as Jack’s knees gave out and he crumbled, barely caught by Ianto’s waiting arms as they settled in an unceremonious heap to the floor, the cool tiling harsh but insignificant; they were warm against each other.
“They all just leave,” Jack sobbed against his chest, the weight and guilt and devastation of everything and everyone - Grey, John, Owen, Tosh; the people, the innocents at Flat Holm, the Night Travelers, all of the things that he’d buried and had neglected to come to terms with - pouring out at once as Jack shook, and Ianto muttered nonsense into his hair in the attempt of feeling useful when the man he loved was lying broken in his arms. “They all die.”
With an unexpected jerk, Ianto was aware of the motion, the living, breathing organic matter of the Earth beneath them, all around them; the timelessness, the agelessness, and he felt connected to it, felt a part of it in a way he’d never experienced before - he was suddenly certain that forever was indeed a very, very long time. He only belatedly noticed that Jack’s breathing had evened, that he had surrendered to the unconscious sleep of utter exhaustion. Smiling sadly, but with a hope he hadn’t felt so intimately, so strongly, in many, many years, he clung tighter to Jack and whispered gently into him -
“Not everyone, Jack. Not everyone.”
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Click Here For Part Two