Title: Kindom of Air, Epilogue: Lazarus
Author: lookninjas
Characters: Gwen, Ianto, Owen, Tosh, Jack.
Rating: R for language, slight slashiness
Spoilers for: Torchwood Season One, Dr. Who episodes "Army of Ghosts," "Doomsday," "Utopia," "The Sound of Drums," and "Last of the Time Lords"

Summary: There are facts and details, but there are no answers.

Disclaimer: I own neither Torchwood nor Dr. Who.

Previous Chapters: Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five

Once again, seize has my humblest gratitude for being a fantastic beta. I also want to thank everyone who's read and commented; the response to the last chapter was honestly a bit overwhelming. So thank you all, seriously.



12 October 2008


Their bus disgorges them in front of a hotel in Pokhara. The city makes Ianto's head spin; too crowded, too many people and cars and buildings. It's a clamor of voices talking in a dozen different languages, honking horns, music drifting from someplace nearby. Whirls of color, bright fabrics, rusted cars, the blue of the sky and the black of the mountains that slice jagged lines across the horizon. Cooking odors rise up from food stalls; there's the reek of diesel fumes, pot and patchouli and incense, the pungent smell of humanity crowded together, washed and unwashed alike. The air is hot and heavy, pressing down on him, the sun scorching his skin. He tastes bile in the back of his throat. It's too much to deal with, too much to take in, and he has to hang his head for a few dizzy seconds, breathe deeply, clench his trembling hands into fists and cling desperately to his composure.

"Are you all right?" Gwen asks, her hand warm and light on the small of his back.

Ianto tries to focus on that gentle pressure, shut out the confusion all around him. "Fine," he says, forcing his eyes open, managing a weak smile. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Bit carsick, that's all."

Owen looks at him, sizing him up. "Could do with a rest, maybe. We all could. Come on." He slings his pack up onto his shoulder (they came with so much, and now all they've got with them is their backpacks), and sets off into the hotel. After a few moments, the others follow him.

It's cooler in the hotel, shady and nice. The woman behind the counter has a soft, melodic accent. It isn't long before Ianto is able to breathe again. The hotel is crowded, trekkers doing the Annapurna circuit before it gets too cold, but they find two rooms next to each other, one for the boys, one for the girls. Even now that everything's safe, Ianto wants to keep the others close to him.

The rooms are shabby and small, but heavenly compared to their tent. Owen heads straight for his bed. Ianto, after a moment's thought, goes into the bathroom. He splashes cold water on his face to soothe the lingering nausea, looks up at the mirror, and finds himself face to face with a stranger. Thick black beard and a dark tan, skin weathered from exposure. The face is thin and weary, the eyes haunted and hard.

Ianto knows, of course, that he's looking at his own reflection, but something inside him refuses to admit it. I died, he thinks. Didn't I?

But it's just a dream, just stress, fear, pressure; all those things he's pushed aside for too long coming up in his sleep. He'll shower; he'll shave. He'll feel better for it.

It helps, a little bit. Just the sensation of hot water pounding down on him is so novel that it drowns out all other thought. But when he finally emerges from the bathroom, water droplets clinging to his skin, his face stinging from a few fresh nicks, Owen is thrashing on the bed, muttering "Ianto... no, Gwen... back... keep together..." and Ianto's heart stops for a few seconds, before starting up again with a fierce, uneven rhythm


15 October 2008


Tosh is pale, her eyes dark-circled. Ianto takes a seat next to her, glancing uneasily about the foyer of the British Embassy as he does so. It's very grand, people sweeping in and out in suits and ties, and he's sharply aware of how his team must look, in ragged t-shirts and shorts and jeans, dusty, trail-worn boots. He used to fit in places like this. Now he feels like he doesn't fit anywhere.

"All right, Tosh?" he asks, when too much time has gone by and she still isn't looking at him.

"Bad dreams, I guess," she says, and he suppresses a shiver. It's the air-conditioning, of course; they've got it up far too high in this building. "Those black things, you know? The ones Saxon had, the ones we saw in the news footage. There were so many of them, and..."

He squeezes her hand and forces a smile. "Just a dream, Tosh. That's all."

Then there's a slim, blonde woman in a beige suit standing in front of them. "Torchwood Three? Follow me, please."


16 October 2008


Gwen's fallen asleep with her head on Ianto's shoulder. He glances past her, out the window, but he can't see anything but clouds. He remembers the flight in, face pressed against the plastic as the peaks came into view, the sharp spike of Everest, trailing its plume of snow and ice. He wonders if he'll ever see mountains the same way again.

"No, Ianto don't..." Gwen mutters, clutching at him. "Don't, they'll kill you, don't..."

He kisses the top of her head, tells himself that it's all just coincidence, nothing more. "I'm here, Gwen," he says. "I'm right here."

Eventually, her grip relaxes, and the fear leaves her face.


18 October 2008


Behind him, someone is screaming. Owen shouts "Ianto! No, Gwen, stay back! We have to keep together!" Then there's gunshots, and Owen lets out a strangled cry, and Gwen screams again.

Ianto himself cannot scream. His breath comes in harsh, choking gasps as the knives slice in. His legs give out and he hits the ground face first, dust stinging his eyes. Tears blur his vision.

He wants to pick himself up, try to protect his team, to at least see what's happening, but he can't move his arms or his legs, if he even has them. He arches his back, but collapses when every part of his body screams in agony. The best he can do is focus his eyes on a scrap of something wet and red just inches from his face.

He wonders if it's a part of someone else's body, or part of his.

He holds on to the pain as long as he can, just to keep himself alive, but it's fading fast now, replaced by a strange, soothing warmth. He is dying. It's over.

It's never really over.

The world is knocked off its axis by the breadth of a hair. Millions of voices are all shouting the same name at once. A strange and radiant glow.

“Doctor!”

He wakes to the sound of his own voice echoing off the walls, and for several long seconds, he has no idea where he is or how he got here. I’m dead, he thinks. I’m dead.

But he breathes in, and the air is warm and rich, saturated with oxygen, and no, he’s not dead. He’s in Cardiff, in the Hub, and if all goes well, Jack will be home tomorrow.

It’s over.

It’s finally over, and he can rest.

Except, of course, that he can’t.

London has been breathing down his neck ever since that first, shortened debriefing session in Kathmandu. Two of their field agents are dead, eleven civilians killed, and Torchwood Three has emerged relatively unharmed; of course they want answers. It’s just that Ianto doesn’t have any to give. He's got details, and he's got facts, but when he puts them all together, they don't add up to anything like an answer.

Then again, if he's learned anything in his life, after Canary Wharf and Lisa and Brynblaidd and everything else he's seen, he's learned that sometimes, there just aren't any answers.

It doesn't stop him from calling the families of those who died on Dhaulagiri; Scott's fiancee, Steve's parents, Hillary's wife and children back in New Zealand. He lets them cry and rage, even lets them attempt to console him (although his loss is nothing to theirs; his grief so insignificant in comparison). They don't even have bodies to bury, or personal effects to retrieve. All they have are questions, and no answers.

There are no answers, and there is no acceptance; peace is a lie and closure is bullshit. The best he can do is put his suits on in the morning (ignoring how loose and baggy they are, how they hang on him in awkward folds of fabric), go to work, and try to hold the team together until Jack gets back.

It isn’t much, but if he keeps trying, it might hurt less someday. And that'll do to be getting on with.

*

The others are gathered around Tosh’s computer, watching the CCTV feed from the Plass.

Ianto is on Jack’s phone, trying to placate a frantic undersecretary from Torchwood One. “I understand that, Beverly, but Captain Harkness’s orders were very firm. The formal debriefing absolutely cannot be scheduled until his return. Yes, I know Mr. Brooke’s feelings on the subject.”

He glances up to find Gwen’s eyes on him. She mouths one word: “Jack.”

“I understand. Believe me, Beverly. I know that. I do.” Then there’s the grinding sound of the invisible lift descending, and the rest of the team stands up, watching with eager eyes. “There’s nothing I can do about it; I’m afraid. It’s simply out of my hands. Beverly, I have to... Yes, yes, I know all about that, but I’ve got to...”

Jack steps off the paving stone, sees his team members gathered around Tosh’s desk, sees Ianto with the phone pressed to his ear saying “I’m terribly sorry, Beverly, but I really can’t talk right now...” and calmly strides back to his own office, plucking the phone from Ianto’s suddenly nerveless hands.

“Hi, Beverly?” Jack’s voice isn't as effortlessly seductive as it might once have been; there's a tightness to it, an undertone of rage and grief. “This is Captain Harkness. Look, I’m afraid I need Ianto right now, so you’re just going to have to call back another time, all right?” Then the phone is in its cradle and Ianto is pulled into Jack’s arms, awkward and confused for only a moment until he smells warm wool and soap, and he buries his face in Jack’s shoulder and clings tight, his breath coming in uneven shudders.

Jack’s arms are tight around him, warm and solid and reassuring as ever, but he can hear Jack’s heart pounding much too quickly, a fast drumbeat, an echo of things that never were, and Ianto is frightened for reasons he cannot name. "I thought I lost you," Jack whispers, and that shaken, almost broken tone is back in his voice.

"We're here, Sir," Ianto says, spreading his hands out against Jack's back, loosening his grip until he's just holding, not clutching. "We're here."

"Thanks to you," Jack says, quietly.

Then Gwen is flying at them, crushing herself against them, sobbing into Ianto’s shoulder, and Tosh hesitates until Jack holds out his hand and draws her in.

Owen hesitates in the doorway, mutters about “Torchwood group hug” and “bloody ridiculous,” but when Ianto looks up at him, Owen sighs. “Fine,” he says, and slides one arm around Tosh’s waist, the other around Ianto’s shoulders. He holds himself stiff and aloof for a moment more, then gives up and leans in, shaking just a little.

It's Owen's trembling that does Ianto in; he can feel the tears starting at the corners of his eyes, and maybe he should, but he just can't, not right now. So he draws back, straightens his suit, and manages a small smile. “I believe I promised you a cup of coffee, Sir?"

Jack smiles back, one arm still draped around Gwen and Tosh’s hand clutched in his. His eyes, however, are thoughtful, as if he can see through Ianto's skin. Finally he nods. “Thanks, Ianto.”

Before anyone else can say anything, Ianto flees.

In the kitchenette, Ianto stares at the coffeemaker as if he’s never seen such a thing before, and when he goes to pour the beans into the grinder, his hands are shaking so badly that he spills them all over. He has to stop and take several deep breaths before he can even attempt to sweep them up. It’s ridiculous, really; Jack is back and all is well. He should be happy now. But it's all still there, all that loss and grief and fear, and he's not sure how much longer he can keep a handle on it. But he has to. For the team.

He's still on his hands and knees, sweeping coffee beans into the dustpan, when Jack comes in. Ianto doesn't have to look up to see him; he can feel that presence, too large for the space, making him irrationally claustrophobic. "Gets to be a habit, doesn't it?" Jack asks, quietly. "Being strong for them. Pushing all the fear and the doubt away, all the pain, because you know that if they see you're scared, they'll be terrified."

Ianto doesn't look up. His hands are shaking. "Not now, Jack, please."

Jack crouches down in front of him, puts a hand under his chin to tilt his head up. "I understand, Ianto. Believe me. We'll talk later, when the others have gone home. But we will talk about it. All right?"

Just that brief contact has Ianto almost completely unmanned, so he doesn't say anything, just nods. After a few seconds, Jack lets go, and Ianto watches him walk away, noticing the heaviness in his step, the exhaustion in the line of his shoulders.

Jack turns back for a moment, face unreadable. "Just remember, Ianto: You saved them." There's something almost terrifying in the intensity of Jack's voice, something that reminds Ianto of blades and falling, of the dreams that never quite leave him, even now. Then Jack straightens, strides off, as if he could just shrug the grief and pain away.

But even Jack Harkness can't do that. It should be comforting, but it's not.

It occurs to Ianto, then, that he knows his Captain so much better now than he ever did before.

He pushes himself to his feet and goes back to his coffeepot.

When the coffee is finished brewing, he pours it out carefully, adds sugar and cream for Tosh, artificial sweetener and fat-free milk for Gwen. Owen’s goes in the “Love Doctor” mug and Jack’s in that monstrosity with two handles and dragonflies painted on it. Ianto sets everything on a tray, and does his best to hold his back straight and smile like nothing has happened as he carries it down to Jack's office. He hands the drinks around, ignoring the worry in Gwen’s eyes and the slight frown on Owen’s face. “If that’s all, sir, I thought I might get started on that expense report from our trip to... from our trip.”

“Go ahead,” Jack says, ignoring Tosh’s glare, and lets Ianto escape to his small workstation behind the tourist office.

*

He adds numbers and totals columns, and wonders how much a human life is worth, how much thirteen lives are worth, and if some actuary somewhere is trying to sort that out. Then he decides that he is not going to ruin the one thing in his life that makes sense by being hopelessly morbid, and forces himself to think of nothing but numbers. For once, it actually works, and hours pass by in a strange sort of peace. When the expense reports are done, he turns to the budget for the fourth quarter, already horribly overdue.

He works on autopilot until the doors to the Hub slide open, Tosh coming through with her coat on and her purse on her shoulder, followed by Owen and Gwen. “Jack’s sending us home early,” Tosh says. “He said for you to come find him so you could talk about... well... talk about it all.”

Ianto manages to smile at her. “Thanks, Tosh.”

Her fingers brush against the back of his hand. “Ianto...” She shakes her head, dark hair falling into her eyes. “You were really good out there,” she says. “Really, really good. Just don't forget that, all right? You did everything you could.”

Ianto lets his hand fall open around hers, her small fingers fitting neatly into the palm of his hand. He squeezes, smiles, lets go. “Thank you," he says again.

Gwen doesn't say anything, but she bends down and kisses his cheek, giving him a quick squeeze. Owen rests a hand on Ianto's shoulder, heavy and warm and reassuring, and nods at him. "See you in the morning, Ianto," he says.

"See you then." The others push their way through the beaded curtain and are gone, and Ianto stares at his computer without really seeing it, taking a few deep breaths. It’s a long time before he manages to turn the machine off and walk back down into the Hub.

Jack is in his office, frowning at a stack of papers. “They really can’t be serious about this. After everything --” Ianto clears his throat, uncomfortable, and Jack looks up, his smile twisted and bitter. “Apparently, you broke the chain of command when you led the team out of those damned mountains. Among about a dozen other things. Christ, they don't even know if they're angry at you for obeying Saxon's orders or disobeying them.”

Ianto blinks. "I suppose they're looking for some sort of scapegoat," he says. "Thirteen people died, Jack."

"And if it hadn't been for you, there would have been even more." Jack tosses his papers down on the desk, letting them scatter, and stands up, holds out his hand. "Come on. I don't want to do this here." Ianto isn't even completely sure what it is that they're doing, but he lets Jack weave their fingers together, lets himself be pulled down to Jack's quarters.

Ianto hasn't been down here since Jack left, not even to tidy, so he's a bit surprised that it smells of furniture polish and laundry soap. "I can clean up after myself, you know," Jack says, tugging him a bit closer, so their shoulders brush. He sinks onto the bed, pulling Ianto down next to him. "Talk to me, Ianto. Tell me what happened."

Ianto leans forward, frowns at the floor. "You're going to have to talk about it," Jack says, still holding onto his hand. "There's the formal debriefing; there'll probably be more meetings after that... It's better you do it here first, someplace safe."

"I just..." Ianto forces himself to meet Jack's eyes. "I guess I just don't know where to start."

Jack's thumb runs over his knuckles. "When did you first realize something was wrong?"

To even his own surprise, Ianto lets out a short, bitter laugh. "Three days after you vanished, we got a phone call from the Ministry of Defence. It bothered me, and I couldn't figure out why."

"Well, I doubt Torchwood One will have you go back that far," Jack says, but he looks troubled. "But go ahead and start there."

So Ianto does, and because this is Jack, he doesn't leave anything out; not Saxon's attempt to get him to transfer back to Torchwood One, not Steve's offers of money and advancement, not anything. It's surprisingly easy once he gets started, and Jack is a good audience, only asking questions or offering comments when Ianto is paused, fighting for words. It's not until Ianto starts describing the descent from Camp Two that his resolve breaks down utterly, and he finds himself unable to say anything.

"What is it?" Jack asks. "Ianto?"

Ianto takes a deep, shuddering breath, and then another. "I should have... Jack, they died up there! I knew it was going to go badly wrong; I knew people were going to get killed... I should have... I just let them go!"

Jack pulls Ianto close, strokes his back, buries his fingers in Ianto's hair. "It's all right. Let it out, Ianto. Just let it out."

And it’s as though he’s only been waiting for the command, because he takes one more deep breath, opens his mouth as if to speak, and then he’s sobbing into Jack’s shoulder, crying for everything he saw and everything that happened, crying for everyone he’s lost. He's still talking, a babbling, incomprehensible monologue about mountains and snow and avalanche, the sound of drums, the gloves from a dead man’s hands, Owen coughing until his ribs separated, Tosh left alone for days, Gwen looking at him like he had all the answers and he didn’t, he didn’t, he was just guessing and he should have done it differently, he should have stopped it happening, he should have saved them all...

He cries until his throat is raw and his eyes are practically swollen shut; he cries until there are no tears left and no words and he’s just shaking.

But Jack is solid, easy to lean on; Jack’s hands are warm and gentle, one resting on the small of Ianto’s back, the other on his neck, toying with Ianto’s hair. “I know,” Jack says, over and over again, as Ianto shakes in the circle of his arms. “I know.”

And Jack does know, better than anyone, because when his cheek presses against Ianto’s temple, Ianto can feel the damp trails of Jack’s tears against his skin. Because when Ianto’s tremors subside, he can feel Jack shaking.

What did you see? he thinks, fuzzily, as sleep comes over him. Who did you lose?

Then it’s warm, and black, and he lets go.

*

Even in Jack's room, in Jack's bed, Ianto dies in his sleep and wakes up with a cry, sweating and shaking. Sometime in the night, Jack robbed him of his shoes and socks, his tie and jacket, but he's otherwise fully dressed, twisted in the covers. He stares at the ceiling, panting for breath, his ragged gasps the only sound in the room.

It's a long time before he calms down enough to lever himself into a sitting position, looking about. Jack is standing by the ladder, hands in his pockets, with that studied nonchalance he only uses when he's hiding something big, something huge and potentially explosive. His face is carefully neutral; he may as well be a wax figure.

Everything slots into place: Ianto's dreams, the way Jack clung to them on his return, the look in his eyes. Ianto's heart is pounding in his ears. "It really happened," he says, half to himself. "We really died."

A corner of Jack's mouth quirks up, his least reassuring smile. "It's only a dream, Ianto."

"If it were only a dream, you wouldn't be halfway across the room," Ianto replies, strangely calm, even though his eyes are swollen and sore, his voice rough from crying. "Tell me what happened, Jack. What really happened."

Jack folds his arms. "There's nothing to tell."

"You're not half the liar you think you are, Jack Harkness." That gets a response; Jack takes a step forward, hands falling to his sides. "You said you thought you'd lost us. You were shaking... Christ, I could feel it. You saw us die, didn't you? You must have. He made you watch."

"Stop." Jack turns away, abruptly, turns back to the ladder, his posture ramrod straight. "Just... stop." One of his hands grips the iron railing, the knuckles white.

"Jack." Ianto pushes out of the bed, pads in his bare feet over to Jack. When he rests his hand on Jack's back, he can feel tense muscles. It is, of course, just as likely that Jack will hit him at this point as it is that Jack will fall into his arms and start sobbing, but he has to take the chance. "Talk to me, Jack. Tell me what happened."

Jack's head drops; he's not lashing out, which Ianto takes as a good sign. He rubs Jack's back, gently. "Forget about it, Ianto. Just... let it go and get on with living."

Ianto smiles, ruefully. "If I were going to forget it, Jack, it would have happened by now." He sighs. "The Toclafane caught up to us in Muri. I wasn't able to distract them long enough to let the others get away. We died."

"No." Jack finally turns, grabbing Ianto's arms, painfully hard. "It wasn't... You outwitted him for so long. You saw through the psychic controls. You led the team out of the mountains. He thought you'd be so easy to kill, but you weren't. You stood up to him, even to the very last. Don't think for one second that you failed, Ianto Jones. If you hadn't gotten them to safety, before..." Jack's grip loosens, one hand sliding up to cup Ianto's cheek. "Everyone who died on that mountain is still dead. If you hadn't gotten the team out of there... Nothing that the Doctor did would have saved you. You kept them alive."

"And if it hadn't been for you and the Doctor, it wouldn't have mattered." Ianto leans into Jack's touch, slides an arm around his waist. "I don't know what Saxon was planning; I wasn't around long enough to find out, but I can't imagine it was anything good."

"It was..." Jack rests his head on Ianto's shoulder. "Never mind. It didn't happen."

Ianto slides his fingers through Jack's hair. "It did. And you were Saxon's prisoner? Jack..."

Jack's arms tighten around him. "You were so brave, standing there, together... I held onto that. It kept me... I couldn't give up after that. He hated you for that, more than anything. I think he would have killed you again, if he could."

Ianto could only die once. But Jack could die over and over and over again... He lets Jack lean on him, strokes his fingers through Jack's hair. "I'm still here, Jack. I'm still here."

"Clever, brave, resourceful Ianto," Jack's voice is muffled in Ianto's shoulder. "I really, really thought I wouldn't... that you were..."

"I know, but I'm not." Ianto pulls back just a little bit, ducks his head down to give Jack a quick, chaste kiss. "You brought me back. I'm not sure how, but I know you had something to do with it."

They lean together, foreheads touching, for a few moments. "You've been dreaming about Muri," Jack says, finally, and Ianto suppresses a sigh. The moment is over. "Every night?"

"Every night," Ianto says.

Jack cups Ianto's face in his hands, studying him. "You weren't supposed to remember it. You shouldn't..."

"But I do, Jack." Jack frowns a little, looks about to say something, and Ianto quickly covers Jack's mouth with his hand. "And before you ask, no, I don't want retcon. I don't..." He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. "It's not pretty, and it's not nice, and I don't know if I want to remember it or not, but... I do remember. There has to be a reason for it." And maybe Jack is right. Maybe there is something to be proud of, despite it all. He doesn't understand it, not now, but maybe he will one day. Maybe.

When he meets Jack's eyes again, he can tell that the Captain isn't convinced. But he sighs, and lets his forehead brush against Ianto's, eyes drifting shut. "It's up to you," Jack says, finally. "Right now, you need to get some rest. Owen's threatened to hurt me if you don't."

Ianto smiles at that, just a little. "Owen?"

"And Gwen, and Tosh. And possibly Myfanwy, although I still don't understand what those cries of hers mean. But she sounded angry."

"She's still sulking over being left alone, no doubt," Ianto says, and then surprises himself by yawning. It has been a while since he's slept, really.

Jack laughs and kisses him, not chastely, but sweet all the same. "Come on," he says, letting go of Ianto and pushing away from the ladder. "Sleep."

Ianto follows obediently, strips off his shirt and trousers and folds them at the foot of the bed. Jack studies him for a long time, his fingers running over Ianto's ribs, the sharp points of his shoulderblades, the long scar down his arm. "You're so thin," Jack says.

"It'll get better," Ianto says. "Gwen's decided it's her job to feed us all up. You should see the pantry."

"I'll look tomorrow, see if there's anything I can add." Jack starts on his own clothing, and Ianto crawls under the covers to watch. There's nothing new to see, of course; no visible scars. Jack looks the same as he always has.

But he's changed. They both have.

Ianto budges over on the bed and lets Jack slide in next to him, still in his t-shirt and boxers, warm arms pulling Ianto close, Ianto’s head tucked between Jack’s chin and his shoulder, Ianto’s nose brushing Jack’s neck. It occurs to him that Jack didn't give him any of the answers he'd been looking for. He doesn't know what Saxon wanted; he doesn't know how Jack stopped him. Jack didn't even admit to being Saxon's prisoner, or to watching his team die.

Then again, those are just facts, details. They aren't answers.

There are no answers, of course. Ianto’s known that for a long time. But they’ll get up in the morning, and go to work, and one day, it’ll hurt less, because it always does.

And that’ll do to be getting on with.