Ianto's Journey - Chapter 11
Title: Ianto’s Journey - Chapter 11
Author: Timelordshines
Characters: Ianto Jones, Lisa Hallet, Jack Harkness
Series Rating: 15
Words: 804 / 25351
Spoilers: S1E4, S2E12, DW-S2E12, DW-S2E13
Disclaimer: Characters belong to RTD and the BBC - I’m just borrowing them.
Written for hc_bingo prompt "Self-harm".
Start at the Prologue
Previous chapter - Chapter 10
Ianto was exhausted. Looking after Lisa whilst also keeping her very existence hidden was taking its toll on him. Not to mention the demands of his new job which was anything but the traditional nine to five. But it wasn’t just the tiredness that was getting to him, he could cope with that. What was really beginning to get to him was the feeling of being so out of control. All he could really do was sit and wait for the fragile house of cards to come tumbling down around him. He had no idea how long he could keep Lisa alive. He had no idea how long he could keep her hidden. He had no idea how to save her.
He was juggling so many things with trying to keep Lisa comfortable and sticking to a schedule for her pain medications as much as possible and stressing when his day job got in the way and he was called away from the Hub for any length of time or if he couldn’t get away from the others.
Ianto was drowning under the pressure, the confusion, the lack of control, the exhaustion and having to keep his mask so firmly in place it was as much a part of him as the metal fused to Lisa’s skin.
Ianto placed his steaming mug of coffee on the desk in front of him and slumped down on the chair in his make shift office in the archives. He had taken his jacket off and rolled up the sleeves of his light pink shirt earlier whilst hefting boxes around and his charcoal grey waistcoat hung casually open.
He closed his eyes and leant back crossing his arms over his chest, his right hand coming to rest over his left forearm. Ianto’s thumb sought out the thin parallel scars crossing the skin of his left arm and rubbed gently in an almost unconscious gesture.
Realising what he was doing he opened his eyes and looked down at his arm. The scars were mere faint white lines, almost imperceptible unless you were looking specifically for them; the tangible evidence of a chequered teenage past spent listening to angry music, experimenting with alcohol and soft drugs, getting in with the wrong crowd, losing control. Puberty could be a lonely and confusing time and Ianto had, briefly, lost his way. One of the only things he had found at the time that worked to calm himself and take back some control of his situation was the ritual of taking the razor blade and slowly, gently running it over his skin, just breaking the surface, watching the bubble of blood form behind the blade then rolling his arm slowly so that the thin line of blood beads ran into each other, coalescing into a bigger droplet that started to run down over the unmarred flesh. He would watch it transfixed, moving his arm so that the drip traced a line becoming an intricate pattern.
Ianto’s gaze settled on the Stanley knife in the desk tidy. He leant forward and picked it up, hefting its weight in the palm of his right hand. He turned his left hand and traced the scar on his palm with his eyes. Owen had made a neat job of stitching it and it was healing nicely. Ianto remembered feeling the blade break the skin, the accidental cut going deeper than the intentional ones he had inflicted on himself as a fifteen year old boy. He slid the blade out of its housing and held it over his inner forearm and touched the blade to his skin.
“Ianto?” Jack asked as he entered the room, startling the archivist, making him slip.
“Shit!” Ianto exclaimed as the blade broke the skin of his arm. It didn’t go deep, but it wasn’t the controlled release of blood and emotion that he craved. He dropped the knife and reflexively pressed his hand over the shallow cut.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” the Captain said, “are you ok?” he asked crossing the room to stand in front of the Welshman.
“I’m fine,” Ianto said, taking his handkerchief from his pocket and used his bottle of water to dampen a corner of it before wiping off the blood. The cut was shallow enough that the small beads of blood that reappeared weren’t big enough to join together and cause a drip.
Jack took Ianto’s arm and raised it to look at the cut. “I’m sorry.” he murmured. “Hey are these…”
Ianto snatched his arm back.
“…Scars?”
“They’re old.” Ianto said dismissively, rolling his sleeves down.
Jack’s brow creased in a frown.
“What did you want, Sir?” Ianto asked with a small smile, knowing that the use of the honorific would be sufficient distraction for Jack to forget what he had seen.
On to Chapter 12
Author: Timelordshines
Characters: Ianto Jones, Lisa Hallet, Jack Harkness
Series Rating: 15
Words: 804 / 25351
Spoilers: S1E4, S2E12, DW-S2E12, DW-S2E13
Disclaimer: Characters belong to RTD and the BBC - I’m just borrowing them.
Written for hc_bingo prompt "Self-harm".
Start at the Prologue
Previous chapter - Chapter 10
Ianto was exhausted. Looking after Lisa whilst also keeping her very existence hidden was taking its toll on him. Not to mention the demands of his new job which was anything but the traditional nine to five. But it wasn’t just the tiredness that was getting to him, he could cope with that. What was really beginning to get to him was the feeling of being so out of control. All he could really do was sit and wait for the fragile house of cards to come tumbling down around him. He had no idea how long he could keep Lisa alive. He had no idea how long he could keep her hidden. He had no idea how to save her.
He was juggling so many things with trying to keep Lisa comfortable and sticking to a schedule for her pain medications as much as possible and stressing when his day job got in the way and he was called away from the Hub for any length of time or if he couldn’t get away from the others.
Ianto was drowning under the pressure, the confusion, the lack of control, the exhaustion and having to keep his mask so firmly in place it was as much a part of him as the metal fused to Lisa’s skin.
Ianto placed his steaming mug of coffee on the desk in front of him and slumped down on the chair in his make shift office in the archives. He had taken his jacket off and rolled up the sleeves of his light pink shirt earlier whilst hefting boxes around and his charcoal grey waistcoat hung casually open.
He closed his eyes and leant back crossing his arms over his chest, his right hand coming to rest over his left forearm. Ianto’s thumb sought out the thin parallel scars crossing the skin of his left arm and rubbed gently in an almost unconscious gesture.
Realising what he was doing he opened his eyes and looked down at his arm. The scars were mere faint white lines, almost imperceptible unless you were looking specifically for them; the tangible evidence of a chequered teenage past spent listening to angry music, experimenting with alcohol and soft drugs, getting in with the wrong crowd, losing control. Puberty could be a lonely and confusing time and Ianto had, briefly, lost his way. One of the only things he had found at the time that worked to calm himself and take back some control of his situation was the ritual of taking the razor blade and slowly, gently running it over his skin, just breaking the surface, watching the bubble of blood form behind the blade then rolling his arm slowly so that the thin line of blood beads ran into each other, coalescing into a bigger droplet that started to run down over the unmarred flesh. He would watch it transfixed, moving his arm so that the drip traced a line becoming an intricate pattern.
Ianto’s gaze settled on the Stanley knife in the desk tidy. He leant forward and picked it up, hefting its weight in the palm of his right hand. He turned his left hand and traced the scar on his palm with his eyes. Owen had made a neat job of stitching it and it was healing nicely. Ianto remembered feeling the blade break the skin, the accidental cut going deeper than the intentional ones he had inflicted on himself as a fifteen year old boy. He slid the blade out of its housing and held it over his inner forearm and touched the blade to his skin.
“Ianto?” Jack asked as he entered the room, startling the archivist, making him slip.
“Shit!” Ianto exclaimed as the blade broke the skin of his arm. It didn’t go deep, but it wasn’t the controlled release of blood and emotion that he craved. He dropped the knife and reflexively pressed his hand over the shallow cut.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” the Captain said, “are you ok?” he asked crossing the room to stand in front of the Welshman.
“I’m fine,” Ianto said, taking his handkerchief from his pocket and used his bottle of water to dampen a corner of it before wiping off the blood. The cut was shallow enough that the small beads of blood that reappeared weren’t big enough to join together and cause a drip.
Jack took Ianto’s arm and raised it to look at the cut. “I’m sorry.” he murmured. “Hey are these…”
Ianto snatched his arm back.
“…Scars?”
“They’re old.” Ianto said dismissively, rolling his sleeves down.
Jack’s brow creased in a frown.
“What did you want, Sir?” Ianto asked with a small smile, knowing that the use of the honorific would be sufficient distraction for Jack to forget what he had seen.
On to Chapter 12