Kingdom of Air, Chapter Three: Crux
Title: Kindom of Air, Chapter Three: Crux
Author: lookninjas
Characters: Gwen, Ianto, Owen, Tosh, OCs.
Rating: R for language.
Spoilers for: Torchwood Season One, Dr. Who episodes "Army of Ghosts," "Doomsday," "Utopia," and "The Sound of Drums."

Summary: Crux: (n) The most difficult part of a climb.

Disclaimer: I own neither Torchwood nor Dr. Who.

Previous Chapters: Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two

Beta'd by seize, who is made of win and love.



27 September 2008


The sky is perfectly blue, the sun bright and hot as it reflects off the snow, and the mountain is almost beautiful in the clear light. Ianto isn't fooled. They'll all have blinding headaches by the time they get up to Camp One; they'll all be overheated and exhausted and sunburnt.

All of them, save Tosh.

She lays a hand on his arm, pulling him out of his thoughts. "I'll be fine, Ianto," she says. "Look after the others for me."

Ianto nods. "I promised. And I keep my promises, Tosh."

Tosh looks at him for a bit, then sighs and pulls him into a quick hug. As his arms wrap around her, he feels how small she is, almost doll-like, and it's hard not to clutch at her. "Who protects us, Ianto?" she asks, her voice muffled by the shoulder of his down suit.

He smiles. "We protect each other." And when she pulls away, he lets her go, as hard as it is.

Tosh turns to Gwen, then, lets herself be squeezed. "Christ, I'll miss you," Gwen says. "That big old tent all to myself."

Tosh smiles, but it's a bit brittle and teary. "I know. Me too. I'll have to get Anj Dorje to teach me Nepali or something, just so I have someone to talk to."

"As long as that's all he teaches you," Owen says, clearing his throat. It actually startles a laugh out of Tosh.

The two of them stare at one another for a while, before Owen finally relents. "All right. No soppiness, though," he growls, pulling Tosh into a quick, one-armed hug. "Take care of yourself, girl."

"And you, Owen," she says, her arms wrapped tight around his waist. Just a few seconds, and then they break apart.

"Keep your radio on," Ianto says, resting a hand on her shoulder. Behind Tosh, he can see the Londoners walking towards them, Hillary and the sherpas behind them. "If we're coming down, we'll let you know so you can expect us."

Tosh wipes at her eyes. "All right, Ianto. You do the same. I need to know... I just need to know what's happening."

He manages a smile. "Yes ma'am." His eyes fall on Steve, blank-faced and lost, and he pulls Tosh into one last hug. "If Saxon calls," he whispers, voice urgent, "remember, keep it as short as you can. Don't let him get to you."

"I promise," she whispers back. "I promise." Then she's pulling back, looking at all of them, somehow managing to keep her face composed. "I'll see you when you get back down." Her eyes rest on them for a few seconds longer, before she turns and hurries away.

We shouldn't split up, Ianto thinks, a bit wildly. We shouldn't be doing this. We shouldn't... Then he forces the fear back into its tidy bundle and shoves it aside. The mountain is what matters now. This is the danger he knows, the one he can respond to. Everything else will have to wait.

Owen is struggling within the hour, his breath coming short and sharp, gasps that echo in the cold, dry air. His cough is worse than ever, harsh and tearing. But he doesn't complain, just keeps his head down, one hand occasionally gripping the rope for support, and Ianto knows better than to fuss over him. He's learned not to underestimate Owen's stubbornness or his pride.

Gwen, apparently, hasn't caught on to that; her hand snatches at Ianto's elbow, snagging his attention. "We're falling behind a bit," she murmurs, nodding at the receding figures of the sherpas above them.

Ianto shakes his head. "It's fine, Gwen. Remember, I've been up here a few times now. I know the way. We won't get lost."

"But..."

Owen has paused, no doubt listening to them. "He can do this, Gwen," Ianto says. Owen straightens up a bit, and when he moves on, his steps are faster. Ianto turns back to Gwen and shrugs, before continuing on himself. Gwen follows him.

*

When they reach Camp One, Owen is coughing badly. Ianto and Gwen follow him to their new tent; neither of them reaches out a hand to Owen to hold him up, but both of them want to. Once inside the tent, Ianto brusquely takes Owen's pack from him, unrolls the insulated foam mat and the sleeping bag, and lays them out as Gwen sets up the propane camp stove. Owen doesn't even glower; just sinks onto the sleeping bag and clumsily peels off his gloves. "Head hurts. Fucking sunlight."

"Bet you never thought you'd miss Cardiff," Gwen says, almost managing to sound cheerful. "Bit of rain might do quite nicely, now."

Owen says nothing, starts tugging at his boots.

Gwen looks at him, sad and worried and disillusioned. "Well," she sighs, at last. "I suppose I'll go see to my own tent, then..."

Ianto doesn't even realize he's going to say it until the words are tumbling out. "You can stay here, if you like. Bit cozy, I guess, but..."

The relief on Gwen's face is almost painful.

Owen sucks in a deep breath. "Ianto, you kinky bugger. And here I thought you cared about me."

"Thank, Ianto," Gwen says, with a genuine smile this time. "I... Thanks."

He manages to smile back at her. "Get yourself settled. I'll go radio Tosh, let her know we're all right."

The wind whips at him as he walks out of the tent, stinging his face. Camp One looks different, full of tents, people moving about. It's not as vast and empty and unsettling as Base Camp, and he feels a pang of gratitude for that even as he feels a stab of guilt over leaving Tosh behind. She's so small, in a sea of empty tents and flat glacier, her only companions two sherpas who barely speak English, nothing to do but watch and wait for them to come back. He pulls out his radio, presses the button. "Jones calling Base Camp."

"Hi, Ianto," Tosh says. She sounds upset, frightened. "Everyone all right?"

"Safe and sound," Ianto assures her. "How is it down there?"

"Dull. Wish I had my laptop."

"It'd probably break in the cold. And I don't think your warranty covers trips to the Himalayas."

"Probably not, but it should." She lets out an unsteady breath. "There was a call for you," she adds. "While you were out."

The fear starts to rise up again, curling around his spine and the base of his ribcage with cold fingers. "Was it my mum? I hope you didn't tell her where I was; she never liked me going out climbing."

Tosh doesn't seem to have the strength to joke anymore. "It was Saxon. He wanted to speak to you. Specifically."

"Ah." He closes his eyes, ignoring the way the fear inches up inside him, nearing his heart.

"I tried to keep the call short, I honestly did, but he kept asking how you were and if you were enjoying the trip and if I were enjoying it and I didn't want to give anything away, so I had to keep pretending, and..."

"Sssh." But he can't soothe her. Not from here. "It's all right, Tosh. I'm sure you did perfectly well. How did he sound?"

Another deep breath. "Normal, really. Like he always does. Just very calm and soothing and sincere..." There's a pause, and when she speaks again, her voice is very quiet. "I kept watching my hand, Ianto. I kept waiting for the tapping to start."

He forces himself to keep his voice calm. "Did it?"

"No."

"Good. I think you'll be all right, Tosh, just as long as you know what we're up against, and not to trust him. Don't let him get to you."

"What if he knows? What if he realizes that we're --"

Now it's Ianto's turn to take a deep breath, and then another. "He's got the election to think of, Tosh. And even if he sends someone else, it'll take them a long time to get here. Try not to worry too much."

"I'm trying," is all she can say, and he can't ask any more of her.

"I won't let anything happen to you, Tosh. I promise you, I won't."

More silence. "Take care of the others, first. I can handle myself."

Ianto allows himself a small smile. "I know you can."

"Anyway. You're exhausted; I can tell it from your voice. Go and eat and drink a lot of water. It's easy to get dehydrated that high up. And make sure the others do, as well, especially Owen."

"I'll look after them. Take care of yourself, Tosh."

"I will." It's amazing, really. It hasn't even been a day, but he already misses her terribly. "Base Camp out."

"Jones out."

The radio crackles once and falls silent. Ianto switches it off, and stares at it for a bit. He looks down at Base Camp, even though he knows he won't be able to see Tosh from here. He looks up at the sky, watches clouds scudding across, white and puffy and innocuous as lambs.

Ianto closes his eyes and lets it all hit him, just for a moment. They're too high up, too soon, too inexperienced; he's too inexperienced, too young, to lead them; they don't know enough about Saxon or what the man really wants or if he's even a man at all; he's not ready for this; he's barely even been in the field before and suddenly he's the one in charge and he's never climbed this high and everyone is looking at him like he knows what he's doing, but he doesn't, he doesn't, and he's so scared. So fucking scared. The fear howls through him like a wild animal, like a fierce wind, and then he bites down hard on the inside corner of his mouth, takes several deep breaths (and oh God, the air is so thin up here), and the fear is compressed, tucked aside. Not gone, not even close, just saved for later.

Tosh is right. They need to eat and drink and rest. He'll worry about that first; then everything else.

*

The tent is overcrowded, Gwen and Ianto and Owen all bundled into their sleeping bags, packed together, their breath turning into hoarfrost on the inside of the tent. But it's warmer with three people, and there's something comforting about being able to hear the others breathe. Maybe they're all gasping like landed fish as they try to cope with the altitude, but they're still breathing.

Ianto closes his eyes and tries to go back to sleep.

He'd feel so much better if Tosh were here.


28 September 2008


Ianto picks up another forkful of imitation egg, forces himself to eat it. The eggs taste of fake, and he can't think of the last time he really felt hungry. He's only eating because he knows he has to. And because Gwen is watching.

Owen sips his tea, stares at a table near the door of the tent. Steve and Hillary are sitting together, talking earnestly. Snatches of the conversation brush past Ianto's ears. "The publicity, though... could be tremendous for you... he'll be Prime Minister soon, and..."

Ianto tries to ignore the rhythm of Hillary's tapping on the table, the sound of drums. He feels foggy, half-asleep. The air is so thin up here; it's starting to hit hard. He wonders how long it'll take before his judgement clouds over entirely.

"Still no sign of Scott," Gwen observes.

"Yeah," Owen grunts. "Well, he looked like shit when we started out yesterday. I doubt the change in altitude has done him any favors. This rate, he'll be comatose by Camp Two. If he's lucky."

Gwen stares into her tea. "Are you sure you can't..."

Owen lets out a sharp, irritated sigh. "Gwen, I have tried. Believe me, I have tried. But his bloody bunkmate --" Owen jerks his head in Steve's direction "-- warned me off pretty well the last time, and I'm not inclined to get myself thrown off the damned mountain."

Ianto pushes his plate away, just as Tenzing walks in. The sherpa glances at Hillary once, briefly, then makes his way straight to Ianto's table.

"You should have a bit more," Gwen is saying, her hand on Ianto's wrist, when Tenzing comes up behind her, and she startles.

Tenzing's face is different somehow, softer, lines of worry around the eyes. "You will help with ropes?" he asks, no longer peremptory or harsh. "Please."

"Of course," Ianto says, getting to his feet at once.

Gwen frowns at him, tightening her grip instead of letting go. "You don't have to," she says.

Ianto pulls away as gently as he can. "Yes I do," he says. "I won't be long."

"I bring back fast," Tenzing adds, his voice almost sympathetic. It makes Ianto uneasy. "Fast down. Very safe."

"Right," Owen says, hiding his face behind his mug of tea. "Well. Guess you'd better get going, then."

Gwen watches them with worried eyes as they leave the mess tent. Hillary doesn't look at them once.

Tenzing watches as Ianto gathers his gear and a coil of rope, buckles into his crampons, fastens his harness. Two of the sherpas are with them, and Ianto takes up his position at the end of the pack, but Tenzing shakes his head. "With me," he says. "Please."

The uneasiness gets a bit worse, but Ianto isn't about to argue. "Of course," he says, and takes his new place as second.

At first, they climb up in silence, Tenzing setting the ice screws, Ianto passing the rope. It's steeper here, harder. He'll have to keep an even closer eye on Owen, make sure Gwen stays back, and doesn't push herself too fast. Perhaps he'll take them partway up tomorrow, just to get them used to it...

Tenzing stops abruptly, rests a hand on Ianto's arm, points with the other towards a large outcropping of rock. "You see," he says. "Very sharp at the top. Like a fin." Then he points down, back at the camp. "From here, camp this way. You see?"

This is why Tenzing wanted him. To show him the way home. "I see," Ianto says, quietly.

Tenzing nods, and continues up without another word.

They stop every half-hour or so, always the same routine. Tenzing points out a distinctive landmark, then points back to camp. They're nearly at Camp Two (two deep ledges carved into the mountain; they'll be separated from the sherpas here) when they reach the last one. "You see," Tenzing says, pointing at a small cave, more of a bolt hole in the rock. "Yellow Boots."

Ianto's first thought is that the boots aren't yellow anymore; they've been faded and bleached by exposure to the sun and wind and snow. It's a few seconds before it really sinks in: yes, there are boots, and feet, and legs; there is a corpse in the little bolt hole, half-covered by a bivouac bag, and it's probably been there for several years. It's been there long enough that the sherpas have taken to using it as a landmark.

Gwen will be horrified, of course.

"I see," Ianto says, his voice as calm as always, and after a few moments, they keep climbing.

*

When he gets back to Camp One, Gwen is waiting with a mug of tea. "I talked to Tosh for a bit," Gwen says, and tries to smile at him. "She's having a bit of an emergency. Apparently, she finished off the last of her Sudoku puzzles."

"It's a dangerous addiction, Sudoku," Ianto says. The tea is scalding hot; it burns his lips and spreads fire down his throat. He takes another sip, letting Gwen lead him toward the mess tent.

"Good climb?" Gwen asks, when she can't stand the silence anymore.

"Tricky in spots, but we'll make it, I think. I'd like to take you and Owen up tomorrow if I can; not all the way, just so you're used to it." Another sip, another attempt to banish the chill. It's almost enough, but not quite. "There's a body up there, you know."

"Oh." Gwen stops abruptly, and stares down at the ice at her feet. "No, I didn't know."

Ianto sighs; he probably shouldn't be doing it this way, but he can't think of a better. "It's been there a while, years, probably. I just... I didn't want it to catch you off guard."

She nods. "Thank you." They stand just outside the mess tent. Somewhere across the camp, Tenzing and Hillary are arguing; Ianto can hear the raised voices, but he can't make out the words. The sky is filling up with clouds; it will snow again soon. "Do you know what happened?"

He can only shrug. "Could be anything. Altitude illness, maybe. Or caught out in a storm and unable to make it back to camp. When it snows, when it really snows, you can't see very far, and it's safer to find a hiding place than to risk tumbling down a crevasse and off a cliff. But if you're caught out too long..."

Gwen's eyes meet his, and he knows, now, that she's not going to go wandering off without him again. "You're scared, aren't you, Ianto?"

"I am."

"Me too." She looks away from him, out at the expanse of sky, the sharp place where the ledge ends and the mountain drops away. "Jack never admits it, you know. He never says when he's scared."

Ianto turns away, his stomach dropping. "I'm not Jack."

Gwen's gloved hand cups his cheek. He hasn't shaved since he left Base Camp, and the stubble is already thick. It itches a bit. "Good. Right now, we need Ianto, not Jack."

He's not entirely sure about that, but he smiles anyway. "Thank you."

"Any time. Come on; you need to eat."

The feeling of something half-remembered rises up as they push through the flaps into the mess tent. Owen is there, picking at his synthetic mashed potatoes, and there's something just on the edge of Ianto's brain. Something to do with Jack.

But it refuses to come close enough to name, and after a while, he lets it go, takes the plate of food that Gwen gives him, and forces himself to eat.


29 September 2008


They don't climb far, just up for an hour or so, and then back down again. Owen's cough is growing steadily worse, and it's starting to snow again. Ianto feels a bit better, though, for having gotten them through the worst bits of the climb, the technical parts. It'll help.

Afterwards, they sit in the mess tent for a bit, sip tea and pretend to eat. Tenzing comes in and asks Owen to look at an ailing sherpa, and after a moment's bemusement, Owen follows their sirdar out of the tent. Then Scott comes in, mobile in his hand, tears in his eyes, and Gwen goes to offer tea and sympathy. Ianto is once again on his own when Steve approaches. He watches the Londoner sit down, his eyes wary.

"Sorry about the other day, mate," Steve says, and his tone has some of the easiness it possessed back in Pokhara. "You know how it is, though. First big assignment, the pressure gets to you. I wasn't thinking."

It's true enough, Ianto supposes. Someone had been doing the thinking for him, was possibly still doing it. "Just don't try going up by yourself again," he says, with a tight little smile. He can only trust that Steve doesn't know him well enough to recognize the strain in his voice.

And apparently, he doesn't. "You were right. About following Hillary, and all that. He's a good man, really. He understands. How important this is."

"Of course he does," Ianto says. Hillary is lost, then. Ianto'd seen it coming, but it still scares him.

Steve's eyes rest on Gwen, her hand on Scott's arm, leaning in to soothe him. "You've got a good team, you know," Steve says, almost casually. "They'd follow you anywhere."

Ah. So that's where this is going. Ianto says nothing, waits, watches as Steve's fingers start tapping, tapping, restlessly tapping.

"I mean, I did wonder, when I saw you were on the roster for this trip. I don't need to tell you what it's like in London. The archivists stick to the archives, and the field teams handle the messy stuff, and never the twain shall meet. But Mr. Saxon was so insistent that you come, that we'd need your experience." It twitches again, that phantom memory, so close. "He was right, of course. Hillary says you're a hell of a climber. A real natural."

Ianto shrugs. "That may be a bit generous."

"No, it's not." There's something almost sincere in Steve's eyes. "Hillary trusts you. Tenzing trusts you. Mr. Saxon trusts you. Anyway, we're going up to Camp Two day after tomorrow, and I just wanted to make sure you knew, after everything... I trust you too. So... no harm done, no hard feelings?"

"None whatsoever." And it's true, in a way. Ianto doesn't blame Steve for any of this. He's being exploited. Used. It isn't his fault.

"Good. We're going to need you with us, Ianto. All the way."

Ianto can only smile and nod; there's nothing he can say right now that wouldn't be a lie. And that, apparently, is enough for Steve; he's gone without another word about it.

When he's alone again, Ianto sips his tea and tries to figure out what he's missing. It's so close now, so close. Just not quite close enough.


1 October 2008


It's been a slow, hard grind up to Camp Two, but in a strange way, Ianto is almost happy. He climbed well. Gwen and Owen climbed well. They're tired but not exhausted, still able to move about, set up the tent, sit in the mess and drink tea.

They're at 22,000 feet and no one has died.

22,000 feet. He never expected to ever go this far or this high. Every childhood dream has just been realized. For just a moment, the circumstances don't matter; he is here and now, and that is enough.

Gwen touches his arm, smiles at him. "What are you so happy for, then?" she asks.

And then Tenzing hurries into the mess tent, and Owen is on his feet, and Ianto is hustling after them, as if his momentary happiness somehow caused everything to go wrong.

"Big Pemba is sick. Breathing very bad," Tenzing says, quickly, leading them down the trail to the sherpas' tents. "Very loud. Then he is coughing blood."

"Shit," Owen says. "Shit."

Night is descending fast upon the mountain, and there are flakes of snow drifting down. It's a bad time for an emergency evacuation.

Hillary is waiting for them in the sherpa's tent, his face stricken in the light of a kerosene lamp as he kneels next to the sick man. No, not a man, a boy, skinny and small, pink foam on his lips as he coughs up blood, his body curled and twisted helplessly on the floor. "We can't get him off to Base Camp like this," Hillary says, no preamble. "If he can get on his feet, even if he's leaning on the other boys, he might be able to get down..."

"Right." Owen is all business, rifling through his pack and pulling out a syringe. He glances up at Ianto, briefly. "Radio Tosh. Tell her we're sending a sick man down to Base Camp. He's got High Altitude Pulmonary Edema, and he'll need to be evacuated to a hospital. She should know where the emergency medical supplies are, but if she doesn't, they're in the mess tent, by the big stove, in the red box. Got all that?"

Ianto nods and hurries out with the radio in his hand. When he switches it on, there's nothing, no noise, nothing. He dials through the frequencies, pops the batteries out of the back, pops them back in. Nothing. The dread in his stomach is a roiling mass, and it's harder to breathe now than it ever was. If they're cut off from Tosh...

The radio crackles and emits a high pitched squeal, and Ianto feels a surge of relief so strong that he almost sobs. "Ianto?"

"Tosh! Can you hear me?"

"-- little -- storm coming -- equipment -- "

He swallows hard. The last thing they need right now is a storm. "Are you all right down there?" he asks, and tries to keep his voice calm and clear.

"All right -- now -- problem?"

Ianto tries to convince himself that the most important bits of the conversation aren't being sucked away by the static. "One of the sherpas is seriously ill. Owen says it's High Altitude Pulmonary Edema. We're going to send him down to Base Camp, but he needs to be evacuated. Can you do that?"

"-- my best -- phone seems to -- "

"Owen says that there are emergency medical supplies in the mess tent, by the big stove, in the red box, if you need them."

"-- know -- put them --"

He's not sure what she's hearing, how much he is missing. He can only pray they're understanding each other. "They're on their way now. Do what you can." Silence. "Tosh? Tosh?"

The radio spits static so loudly that he nearly drops it.

"Tosh! Tosh!"

Dead air.

He stands and lets the snow fall on his face and tries to come to terms with the fact that he cannot rush to Tosh's side to help her. Then the sherpas are half-leading, half-carrying Big Pemba out of his tent, switching on headlamps as they go, each individual snowflake caught in the light for a second, perfect, then tumbling down. Owen gives them another syringe, relays instructions on its use through Tenzing. "In his hip, yeah? And let him lay down for a bit; he won't be on his feet immediately, you have to give him some time. Fuck, I wish we had oxygen. Um... Keep him warm. Tosh'll know what to do."

Owen backs up to stand next to Ianto, and they watch the Sherpas descend, the lights on their helmets bobbing down the mountain like fireflies.

"I've lost radio contact," Ianto confesses. "Tosh said something about a storm, but... there was so much static."

Owen nods, and rocks back on his heels. "D'you know how old that kid is?" he asks. "Sixteen. Sixteen years old. Christ." He coughs; it's taken on a pained edge.

Ianto takes a deep breath, and then another. "We're going back to Base Camp tomorrow," he says.

"We've almost got the artifact," Owen says, and it's not a challenge exactly, more of a statement of fact. "Day after tomorrow at the latest."

Ianto decides it's best to just ignore him. "If we leave early in the morning, we'll be at Base Camp by mid-afternoon. Hopefully, Tosh will have been able to raise a helicopter by then."

Owen rocks back and forth on his heels, back and forth. "It's your call, Ianto," he says. "C'mon, let's go back."

Hillary is standing in the mouth of the boy's tent, looking at nothing, his expression unreadable. Ianto has to wonder how much their guide heard, how much he might repeat. He pushes it out of his mind; it isn't anything he can control.

Instead, he focuses on helping Owen scramble up the narrow, rocky track between the sherpas' camp and their own. It's harder, going up, and Owen stops often to catch his breath, his cough coming more frequently, louder and harsher and more and more pained. When they reach the main camp, Owen is bent double by a violent spasm, and this time, Ianto wraps an arm around Owen's waist to hold him up. Owen's hand clenches on Ianto's shoulder, but doesn't push him away.

"Fuck," Owen says, when he can finally breathe.

"Let's get you into the tent," Ianto says, unable to say any more.

Gwen rushes to them, hovering over Owen's other side, but not touching him. "What's happened? What's going on?"

Ianto closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and fights to keep his patience. "We need to get Owen to the tent."

Much to his surprise, Gwen falls silent, following after them.

Even with the stove lit, the tent is freezing cold. Ianto crouches at Owen's feet, undoing his boots. Owen lays back and presses on his ribcage with the palm of his hand. "Separated ribs," he explains, his voice strangely calm. "Gwen, get into my bag and get out the orange bottle, the one that says 'Codeine' on. There's a love."

"Hurts, then?" Ianto asks, careful to keep his show of concern to a bare minimum.

Owen coughs, and Gwen flinches at the sound. "Like being stabbed. But only when I breathe, so there you are."

Gwen manages to fumble the bottle out and pass it to Owen, along with a cup of hot water. Her eyes rise up to Ianto's, pleading.

He can only nod. "We go down tomorrow. If..." His eyes flick over to Owen, who snorts derisively.

"Worry about yourself, Teaboy. I'm all right."

Privately, Ianto doubts that, but he's not going to say it right now.

"What happened?" Gwen asks, passing another cup to Ianto.

He sits on his own sleeping bag. "One of the sherpas is very sick. We've sent him back down to Base Camp." He sips the water, sighs. "Gwen... We've lost contact with Tosh."

She bites her lip, swallows hard. "Right," she says, quietly. "Well. But we'll be seeing her tomorrow."

In the ensuing silence, Ianto can hear the snowflakes pattering on the canvas of the tent. Faster and faster, a curtain of white drawing down over them, closing them off from everything.


2 October 2008


It's pitch black when Ianto pushes his way out of the tent, flicks on his headlamp. He knows that Scott and Steve's tent is only a few yards away from theirs, but he can't see it. Only the white. The wind is picking up, howling as it scrapes the mountain.

Fine. They'll get a later start. It'll clear by daybreak.

Except, of course, that the storm is even worse by daybreak.

Owen is sleeping - it's fitful, but he's sleeping - and Gwen is making instant oatmeal and tea on the camp stove. Ianto watches her, trying to figure out what to do, but his head is killing him; it's hard to think through the pain. The nylon shell of the tent bends and shifts beneath the wind; they've had to put all their clothing on at once just to keep warm.

But the storm will stop. It will stop. It has to.

It doesn't.

*

"We shouldn't be here," Gwen says, laying on top of her sleeping bag. Ianto wonders, vaguely, what time it is. Probably midafternoon. Christ, he hurts. "We should be in Cardiff. We should be home."

Owen coughs for a long time, and Ianto says, "That's enough, Gwen."

But it stirs up something inside of him, that familiar sense of something forgotten, and he finds himself talking again soon. "One of us should be at the Hub. God only knows what could have come out of the Rift. Saxon's well aware of that. He should have had one of us stay back to monitor things."

"Unless the Rift is what he wants," Gwen says, very quietly.

Owen coughs again and sits up slowly, one hand pressed against his side. "Saxon said he wanted all of us to go," he says. "Was quite insistent about it, actually. All four of us needed to be here."

"The last time I talked to Steve, he said..." Ianto closes his eyes. It doesn't slot together nicely, not the way he'd like, but it fits. It fits. "He said that Saxon insisted that I go. That they would need my experience. But Saxon has no idea I know how to climb. It's not on my CV or anything; it's just a hobby. And the way they described the artifact, like it looked like the Sphere... None of you ever saw it. But I did."

"He wanted us to think it was a void ship, something we couldn't just leave on the mountain," Gwen finishes. "But why bring in Scott and Steve? Why hire the guide and the sherpas?"

"So we'd go exactly where he wanted us," Ianto says. "To lead us here before we could figure out what was going on."

"Halfway up a mountain in the middle of nowhere," Owen adds. "Unable to get home in time to do anything to stop him."

Ianto shakes his head, unwilling to allow that line of thought too much traction. "We'll make it back," he says. "We have to."

"I trust you, Ianto," Gwen says, and her voice is soft, almost childlike.

He almost tells her that she's too trusting, but he doesn't. Instead, he listens to Owen's coughing, the rattling of the tent, and tries to remember what it felt like to sleep in his own bed, in his own flat. Or, more comforting than that, the thought of the Hub, the constant dripping sound, the hum of the computers. Safely underground, with no place left to fall, so deep that he could go for days without seeing the weather, without knowing whether or not the sun was shining. Down in Jack's little monastic cell, squeezed tight on that too-small bed, Jack's arms wrapped tight around him. He never thought he'd miss that damp, claustrophobic hole the way he does right now.

Outside the tent, the wind howls, and the snow keeps falling.


3 October 2008


The storm has eased up slightly. It will break soon. It has to.

Ianto can't get a signal on the radio. He's got no idea what's happening to Tosh right now, if she's all right, if the sick sherpa is all right, if he even made it down to Base Camp at all. He should never have let the team be split up, not for a second.

It's too late for that now.

Owen's shuffling around the tent with one hand on his ribcage, face pale and pinched, communicating primarily in annoyed grunts. Even Gwen has given up asking him how he is, and has taken to checking her climbing gear over and over again, so she'll be ready the moment Ianto decides it's safe to descend.

The wind has died down, but there's so much snow. It'd be beautiful if Ianto weren't currently 6,700 meters above sea level, unable to breathe and scared out of his mind.

He imagines that, under the circumstances, even Jack would panic a little bit. And Christ knows he isn't Jack. Just the teaboy, that's all. Chief Archivist. General Support Staff. Part-Time Shag.

If any of them survives this, Ianto'll have to put in for a new title. Head Mountaineer, perhaps.

He'd like to stop panicking now. Really, he would. But given the situation, he doubts that's going to happen.

He clears the snow off their tent, and then, for lack of anything better to do, breaks a path to the mess. Scott is still nowhere to be seen, but Steve is standing near the edge of their shelf, staring up and out, looking for that glint of gold. Ianto doesn't say anything to him. Steve wouldn't listen at any rate.

There's tea waiting in the mess tent; it warms Ianto's hands and lips, but it doesn't calm him down the way he'd hoped. He won't be calm until they're back in Cardiff. He might never be calm again.

He sips his tea, and tries to breathe, and sits down next to Hillary. It occurs to him, belatedly, that Hill looks absolutely exhausted.

"D'you think they got Big Pemba down to Base Camp all right?" Hillary asks after a while, staring into his tea.

Ianto thinks of the sick boy, curled up and coughing blood, each breath coming loud and sharp like his lungs were full of broken glass. He wonders, vaguely, why the smallest member of the team always ends up with the nickname "Big." "I'm sure they did," he says, finally, because he doesn't have the heart to tell the truth.

Besides, all he has to do is look at Hillary's face, and he knows that their guide doesn't hold out any more hope than he does. "It's funny, isn't it," Hillary says, watching the steam rise up from his mug of tea. "The whole bloody thing. First I get this call from your Mr. Saxon himself, telling me he needs to set up a trip to Dhaulagiri, everything paid for, no questions asked. That alone should have sent me running for the foothills, but I say yes, of course, whatever you want, Sir. Then you lot show up, and you're the only one's ever climbed anything, and I've gotten some sad blokes up mountains in my time, but ... And I don't even question it. No team doctor. No Base Camp Manager. All right, this isn't Everest, but with a bunch of complete slappers, you'd think I'd have asked for more. A couple of other guides to help out, at the very least. But I don't.

"And I ought to be teaching you lot to climb, and instead I'm on the phone, and Tenzing's trying to keep the sherpas organized, and that leaves you, lad, to do all the instruction. And then we get to the glacier, and I'm putting that bloke Steve's crampons on his feet for him, because he doesn't know how to do it for himself. And there's no other teams here, so there's no one we can turn to for help if things go wrong; it's just us alone on this damned mountain. I'm not sticking to my acclimatization schedule as I ought to, because I'm in such a damned hurry to find out whatever it is you lot are looking for. Everything that I know I ought to do, everything that ought to scare the shit out of me, and all I can say is 'Yes, Sir,' when that Mr. Saxon calls. And do what I'm told. Christ, he's nothing to do with me! He's not my government; I never voted for him. And yet here I am, letting him run the climb. And now there's a boy dead because of me. Probably more than one."

Ianto swallows hard. "Then turn around, Hillary. Turn around before anyone else dies."

Hillary lets out a short bitter laugh. "But I can't, lad. Those nutters from London aren't turning back now, not this close, and I'm a shit guide if I let them go up there on their own. They won't last ten minutes. You've seen them climb. You know how it is."

"Then that's their decision," Ianto says.

"But it's not, lad," Hillary says. "I'm not faulting your turning around. You're responsible for keeping your team alive; that's your job, and you're doing it, and good on you for that. But my job is to save those idiots from themselves. And I have to do it. I'm a lot of things, but I'm not a shit guide."

There isn't anything left for Ianto to say.

Hillary stands up, rests a hand on Ianto's shoulder for a second, a warm and welcome pressure. "Take care of your team, lad," Hillary says. "Get 'em down safe." And then he's walking out of the mess tent, leaving Ianto to clutch his cooling tea in both hands and wonder when he'll stop panicking enough to know what he's doing.

"Yellow Boots" was inspired by the story of Green Boots.