Words, Words, Words

Fic Repost: Note to Self (Don't Die)

2009-09-29T11:03:44Z

Another fic repost, because I got up early but don't feel like going for a run on my crampy legs. And because the first draft of Season of Mists is done but I'm not quite prepared to start the second. And because it's Tuesday. And because I can.

Have I mentioned I miss Owen? I miss Owen.

Fic: Note to Self
Title: Note to Self: Don't Die.
Characters: Ianto, Jack, Owen, OMC, OFC
Rating: R (Violence, Owen's pottymouth)
Summary: He was still Ianto Jones, and caring for people was still what he did best.

Disclaimer: Not mine. Not even remotely. Not even in my dreams. [ETA: Written pre-Series Two. Now completely and utterly and thoroughly Jossed. So AU it's not even funny.]

This is the follow-up to Sex Changes (Everything) You'll want to have read that first. Really.

There were days when he wished Jack were still there, to tell him what to do. Hell, he'd have settled for Owen, for anyone, really. But Jack was off across the universe again. Tosh was long since gone. Gwen had given up, let herself be retconned out of the game. Owen was the only one who still had any connection to Torchwood, although after what had happened to his leg, he'd had to give up fieldwork, eventually taking a position as their liason at the hospital.

Ianto had been left behind, unable to leave even if he'd wanted to. Torchwood was not about to let him go, not when he was forty-five years of experience in a body that didn't yet appear thirty, and there really wasn't any other place for him. He wasn't Jack, no matter what happened to him, and leaving was not in his nature. So he took over control of the Hub, found replacements for his friends, trained them, tried to protect them, and eventually found himself replacing the replacements, all the while trying to keep the Rift under control, to keep the world safe. All the care and responsibility that had once been Jack's was now his. And most of the time, he was absolutely fine with that. He was still Ianto Jones, and taking care of people was still what he did best.

Still, there were days that he wished Jack were still there to tell him what to do.

The... thing was like a weevil, and yet it wasn't; it was horrible in ways that weevils were not, and it was clever and vicious in ways that Ianto couldn't have predicted. And now it was headed straight for Angela, practically slavering, and she wasn't moving. Angela was not new to the team and this was not the first time she'd faced danger, but for some reason, she just stood there, as it paced towards her, talons extended, still slavering. "Move, Angela!" Ianto shouted, but she didn't move. And then the thing started running at her, and without stopping to think, Ianto began to run as well. There was no time for a gun; there was no time for anything. He knocked Angela to the ground, and then the thing was on top of him, ripping and rending. For a few seconds, he managed to struggle, and then there wasn't even that, just pain and claws and an awareness that somewhere, someone was screaming.

For the first time in a decade, he thought of Lisa, although he couldn't have said exactly why.

Then there were shouts, running footsteps, the sound of gunfire, and with a parting slash that split him from armpit to hipbone, the thing was gone. Adrenaline still coursing through him, he actually tried to sit up, but was stopped by a horrible pain and a feeling of sliding, an awareness that he did not want to see what had been done to him. He looked anyway and saw a mass of red spilling out onto his lap, something that had been inside of him now broken free. Suddenly, he realized that he was very tired, and with that, he was on his back again, his eyes slipping closed.

He had to hold himself together, he had to get up and help his team...

He was so tired...

Then the darkness was coming at him, faster than anything he'd ever known before.

* * *

White light. The sound of footsteps: someone with a limp and a cane. Step thonk draaag, step thonk draaag. A strangely muted pain was singing through every nerve ending, deadened but not gone, waiting to come back to life. His head felt foggy. His throat was dry and aching.

He opened his eyes.

The room was very white and very clean, full of machines, tubes and wiring. There was a soft humming and beeping from all around him. Hospital. He wasn't dead. The relief that surged through him was so strong that he had to close his eyes, letting out a sound that might have been a sob. The footsteps made their way to the bed, and someone took his hand. "Ianto?"

He knew that voice.

He opened his eyes again, saw a face that he still recognized, despite the distortions of time. "Christ almighty, you scared the shit out of me." Owen. "Fuck. I really thought you'd had it this time. Bet you never thought you'd be glad to see me."

Ianto opened his mouth, but he wasn't sure if he could speak or not, and he couldn't think of anything to say. He settled for turning his head to watch as Owen settled himself in a chair by the bed, still holding Ianto's hand with something that might have been tenderness. "Don't bother," Owen added. "You're heavily sedated, and you were never all that clever to begin with." His voice only shook a little. "As a matter of fact, you're a complete fucking idiot. If it hadn't been for..." He stopped there, wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "Christ, I'm glad to see you, Ianto."

He smiled, or tried to smile. He wanted to say something, but the words puddled in the back of his head. Everything hurt, and a blackness was sweeping over him, but it seemed different now, gentler. There was nothing to do but let it come.

He closed his eyes, and slept.

* * *

Shouting. Gunfire. Running feet. Talons ripping him open. He tried to sit up, saw his guts spilling out, fell back again. He was so tired.

"Move, move!"

"Someone get my fucking kit!"

"What the fuck happened?"

The pain was starting to ebb away, and the darkness was rushing at him, and as tired as he was, he was terrified, knowing...

"Sir, sir..."

His hands were pushed away from his stomach, let fall to the pavement, and someone let out a low, hissing curse.

"Look at me, sir, look at me..."

He wanted to open his eyes, get away from the blackness, but he didn't have the strength and there wasn't quite enough pain left to hold on to anymore.

"Damn you, Ianto Jones, don't you die on me, don't you fucking die!"

"He's not going to die." As the darkness crashed down on him, he tried to figure out how he knew that voice...

* * *

This time, when he opened his eyes, he felt marginally more human. The pain was worse, but the pain was welcome in a way, let him know that he was still alive. He lifted his head, saw a bent old man in a white coat, leaning on a cane, poring over a chart. "Owen..."

The man looked up with an unaccountably broad smile. "Hello, Teaboy."

He had never been that purely glad to be called "Teaboy," not ever. There were a thousand things he wanted to say at that moment, but all he could really manage was "Owen."

Owen limped over to the chair by the bed, sitting down with an audible groan, the chart dropping into his lap. "Bet your throat hurts something terrible right now. Ice chip?"

Ianto managed to nod, opening his mouth slightly, and was rewarded by a small sliver of cold and wet, trickling down into his parched and aching throat. It was slight comfort, but he was ridiculously grateful for it. "Can't give you more than that, I'm afraid, not for a while. That thing sliced you to ribbons, and as usual, I'm the one gets to patch you up afterwards. Hope you're grateful." Ianto smiled at that. Yes. Yes, he was grateful. "Incidentally, have I told you what a fucking idiot you are? Because you are, you know. You're not fucking immortal, and you're not fucking Captain Jack Harkness, and you're supposed to have more fucking sense than that. I suppose next you'll be skulking around in a bloody great coat and standing on the top of tall buildings." Ianto kept smiling, and after a long look, Owen smiled back.

"Anyway. You lost more blood than anyone has any right to and still be alive, but at least you don't seem to have gotten some weird alien infection. Actually, you're healing rather fast, although, and I repeat, that doesn't make you immortal, so don't start acting like it. I had to do a lot of very complicated things to save your stupid life, none of which you would be capable of understanding, but at the end of it all, you will live, and be more or less all right, and will probably even be able to go back to Torchwood, although why you'd still want to is beyond me. Then again, you are a fucking idiot." Ianto didn't argue the point, and Owen fed him another ice chip. "Also, in case you were wondering, your team is fine; they took it out with a funny sort of flamethrower. Good job they had help."

Ianto opened his mouth, and Owen waited, patiently, until he managed to get the name out. "An... Angela..."

"Ah, yes. The one you went all heroic for. Still not sure what exactly went on there, but I guess they decided to retcon her. She was still... scrambled, I guess you'd say. Seemed the kindest thing. The rest of them got a bit beat up, but your new doctor patched them up. He's not half bad, all things considered. He was in for a bit, but I sent him packing before you woke up - he was dead on his feet." Owen cleared his throat. "No offense."

It took some time, but Ianto managed to get another word out. "Thanks..." He was already starting to get hazy again, his eyes slipping closed without him wanting it.

"Ah. That look tells me that the drugs are starting to kick in, and you're about to pass out. Good. I was tired of hearing myself talk anyway. Oh, and Teaboy?"

After some struggle, Ianto managed to open his eyes, focus once more on Owen's face.

"I'm glad you're not dead."

* * *

"Damn you, Ianto Jones, don't you die on me, don't you fucking die..."

"He's not going to die."

He knew that voice.

Then someone was bending over him, and there was a beautiful, all-suffusing warmth coursing through his veins, every nerve ending alive, and he'd felt this before, he'd felt this way with someone... Then it was gone, leaving him gasping, the pain and panic hitting him full force. "I'm sorry, Ianto," a familiar voice breathed into his ear. Then even that was gone.

"You. Stay with him. Get him to the hospital. Don't let him die. You and you, with me."

"But what about..."

"We'll take care of her later. Move, damn it!"

He heard footsteps, running away. He heard his own agonized breaths. He felt hands pushing at him, making him scream.

"Hang on, sir, hang on, I know it hurts..."

But the pain was alive again, and the warmth was gone, and for a moment, Ianto couldn't help but wish that he'd been left to the darkness after all.

* * *

It was night now, and the room was lit only by a dim glow, but he was awake again, and someone was holding his hand. "Owen," he muttered, trying to think of something clever to say.

"He's been fussing over you for three days, so I sent him home. Never knew he was so sweet on you."

Ianto swallowed, his throat suddenly so much drier than it had been, because he knew that voice. He tried to sit up, but a hand on his shoulder forced him back down. He was at least allowed to turn his head and stare at the man sitting next to him. For a long time, that was all he could do. "Jack."

"Ianto." Jack's face had never been more of a mask, had never revealed less. "One day, you're going to hate me for everything I've done to you."

"If you say so, sir."

The response was automatic, and so was the brief smile that touched Jack's face. "I should have let you go."

But Jack's grip on Ianto was suddenly so tight that Ianto had a hard time believing he really meant it. "I wasn't ready to die."

Jack studied his face for a long time, their fingers intertwined. "It wasn't my choice to make."

"No." Ianto felt he must, at least, concede that. "But I'm glad you did it anyway."

They didn't say anything more, and after a long time, Ianto finally let himself lapse into sleep.

Fic Repost: Sex Changes (Everything)

2009-08-24T00:28:04Z

I've decided to repost some of my older stuff here, rather than leaving it all scattered on various communities. I'm doing this partially out of a desire for organization, and partially because this allows me to feel like I'm "working" when I'm not actually writing a damn thing. Call it productive slacking.

I'm starting with the Sex Changes (Everything) stories because they've been on my mind a lot lately. Bear in mind that these were written before Series Two, and were heavily, heavily jossed. I mean, they were AU to start with, and I knew it, but they're even moreso now. Damn, I miss Owen and Tosh.

Title: Sex Changes (Everything)
Characters: All
Rating: R (implied slash, dodgy language)
Summary: Jack can bring someone back from the brink of death with just a kiss. And Ianto has gotten far more than just a kiss from Jack.

Disclaimer: Torchwood isn't mine. Neither are the Dresden Dolls. But it'd be really interesting if they were.

Somebody should have seen this coming, but nobody did. Everything was always so complicated, had always been. There simply weren't enough hours in the day to think of every single thing that could go wrong. Besides, when you see people so often, all day every day, you don't notice how they change and age. It's all so gradual that you wouldn't notice.

Then one day, they woke up older. Owen's hairline was receding dramatically. Gwen was contemplating Botox injections. Even Tosh, who had never seemed vain at all, was relying on Miss Clairol to cover up all those strands of silver. They were all older, not old, just older. Everyone but Jack.

And now, Ianto.

His face was still boyish and smooth, unlined. His hair was as dark and thick as ever. He looked exactly the same, and it was more than a little unnerving. Ianto was more unnerved than anyone else; in fact, he was downright scared. No matter how hard he tried to convince himself and the others that he'd simply hit the genetic lottery, that eventually even he would age, he couldn't hide from the fact that ten years is more than long enough to get at least a few wrinkles. He didn't even have any new scars - not from the time that Weevil had gotten him and shredded his chest, not from that harpoon thing he took in the side, not even from the time Owen shot him in the shoulder. His body had, for all appearances, stopped precisely at twenty-six years, eight months, and eleven days old. And he was scared.

What if he never started to age again? What if he couldn't die anymore? He knew, after years of being around Jack, that immortality wasn't really all that enjoyable, that sooner or later, you get exhausted of living. Ianto didn't feel immortal - it still hurt when someone bashed him in the head with a large object or stabbed him, and he had been sick once or twice, but that didn't prove much of anything. There were, of course, many ways to test for immortality (Owen in particular was full of suggestions), but Ianto wasn't inclined to try them out. He didn't want to live forever, but that didn't mean he was already ready to die.

Instead, he sat through every non-lethal test Owen could think of. He was poked and prodded and scanned a thousand times. He let Owen take his blood and skin and hair and saliva and everything else that could be usable, up to and including bone marrow. At the end of it all, Owen could only say that Ianto was a perfectly normal, healthy twenty-six year old. Which would have been fantastic, were Ianto not getting alarmingly close to forty. In an apparent effort to lighten the mood, Owen said "Well, that settles it. Jack's cock is the Fountain of Youth."

Ianto turned slightly green, and Gwen, her voice shrill, said "Owen! You're not helping!"

No one could really prove anything, but they all assumed it must have been Jack. After all, they'd seen him bring people back from the brink of death with just a kiss. And Ianto had, from time to time, gotten so much more than just Jack's kiss. The man had so much life in him that it just seeped out at the pores, apparently beyond his ability to control it. No one could really prove anything, though; they didn't even understand what had happened to Jack, or why he didn't die. So no one could now understand what was happening to Ianto. It could be temporary, fading when Jack finally left for good (as Ianto had always known he would, sooner or later). It could be a partial thing - aging more slowly, healing more quickly. Maybe he would eventually die.

Then again, maybe he wouldn't. Maybe there was so much Jack in him that he would become like Jack, not really human, bitter and immortal, exhausted and unable to rest.

Eventually, they stopped trying to figure it out. There was too much to do and too little time. Ianto buckled down and focused on keeping the Hub running, stopped checking his reflection for the wrinkles and grey hairs that never came. Nor did he take any stupid chances, testing the limits of his potential immortality. The others started to take it as a comfort after a while. Ianto had always been there. Now, it looked as though he would always be there, long after they'd gone on.

Then, late one night, with everyone at home, he found himself in Jack's office, and Jack looked up at him strangely. "I am so sorry, Ianto," he said. "I swear to you, I didn't mean to do this. I wouldn't wish this on my worst enemy, let alone someone I --" Then he fell silent, because after all this time, he still couldn't say exactly what Ianto was to him. More importantly, Ianto had finally broken down and started to cry.

And although their relationship (which had always been an on and off kind of thing) was more off than on these days, Ianto clung to Jack that night, and let him try to comfort him with his words and with his body, with everything that he could think of. Because Ianto was already more lonely than he had ever thought possible, and only Jack knew how lonely this was going to get.

And just for funsies: the DRESDEN DOLLS!

Not dead, as yet

2009-08-22T03:54:06Z

So posting excerpts from the novel-in-progress didn't go as well as I hoped. Honestly, I'm just blocked on the silly thing -- I think it'll be easier to write in fall and winter. I've never really written well in the summer; there's too much to do.

Well, I say that, and yet.

I watched Children of Earth, and I have my complaints with it; I'm sure most of you know what they are. I've never claimed that I don't play favorites with the Torchwood gang. I love them all, and I still can't watch Exit Wounds without sobbing, but I have a favorite and we all know who he is. So I have my complaints with Children of Earth. So I'm currently 20,000 words into fixing said complaints.

So much for not being able to write, anyway.

Anyway, in case anyone stops by this journal anymore, I'm not dead. And I'm once more writing for Torchwood, although it'll be a while before this one is ready for posting. So there's that.

Also, since I'm still catching up from my long-ass internet hiatus, what have I missed in Torchwood fandom? Any fics I should be reading? I've tried to catch up on the one-shots, but the epically long multi-chapter fics that seem to be in vogue recently just intimidate the crap out of me. What should I be reading?

I Have No Idea If Anyone's Still Reading This

2009-05-20T01:14:45Z

Anyway. Life happened, no internet, blah blah blah, and I fell away from Torchwood fandom for a while. And I've started working on an original project, so I'm trying to focus my writing energy on that. Here's the thing, though; fandom has fucking spoiled me. I honestly feel like it's harder for me to write without the "deadline" of wanting to get things up and posted. And then, too, there is the sheer addictive crack that is instant comments and feedback and reviews. I have my little IRL writing group, but we're all such slackers that our meetings, when we have them, revolve around us trying to find a good program with which to share the stories that we never actually write. I miss that.

So I've been mulling it over in my mind, and this is what I've decided -- I'm going to start posting what I've written, in easily digestible chunks, on this journal. I am going to friends-lock, because they say that publishers don't want to pay for a story that's already been offered for free, and I realize that friends-locking won't really help that, but I don't feel like doing more than the bare minimum, so. If you want to read, and you're not on my friends' list, comment and I'll add you. If not, that's fine.

And if no one comments on this or is reading this journal anymore, that's fine. I'll go be emo in my emo corner for a little while, and then cheer up and start posting it anyway, regardless. Just to see if it gets me more inspired to write.

Oh! The story, if you're interested, is more or less steampunk; it's about a girl, a robot, and Jack the Ripper. More than a little influenced by the Dresden Dolls, naturally.

And that's me, lately. How've you guys been?

WIAD Week Seven, or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Crack

2008-05-20T02:00:17Z

WIAD Week Seven -- I am stressed out, I am exhausted, and I am worried. My last story didn't go over so well, and I didn't feel it met my standards. What fresh hell awaits me?

The prompt: Wasted.

Now, there's few prompts that lead to crack quite as well as having a character get completely and utterly trashed. And there is no Torchwood episode quite as cracky as "Something Borrowed." Alien pregnancy! Catfighting mothers! Rhys with a chainsaw! Ianto the Wedding Fairy! And then, of course, we finally get to meet the infamous Banana Boat, the best man who wound up in jail in Lanzarote and just barely got sprung in time for the wedding. My brain lit up. I spent my time wandering around, thinking up story ideas, and snickering to myself. It was fantastic.

Was it my best work ever? No, probably not. But it was a hell of a lot of fun to write, and I'm definitely going to expand a bit on the idea and see how much more I can do with it. I have a feeling there's loads.

Title: White Rabbit
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: for 2x08 and 2x09. Uses website content for 2x09.

It's not the first time he's found himself dazed and hungover in a jail cell. It's not even the first time he's done it somewhere they don't speak English, and had policemen pointing and jabbering at him while he tries to explain that he's Inglés, Inglaterra, no habla Español. So he's not worried, really.

One of the policemen speaks English well enough to explain why he's been arrested. They let him call the Embassy and Rhys, neither of whom are pleased to hear from him. Still, he's not worried. They'll sort things out

Two days in, a couple of men in military uniform come in to his cell, make pull his trousers and pants down and bend over. He's expecting the snap of a latex glove, but it never comes. They just stare at his arse, examining the skin as though he's got some sort of code tattooed there. Then one of them says something that sounds an awful lot like surgery. He starts to worry a bit at that.

Next morning, a couple of blokes come in wearing big white anti-radiation suits. Worry turns to all-out panic.

He used to watch anti-drug films and laugh his arse off. But what if they were right? Maybe he's still on the beach in Lanzarote, tripping out of his mind. Maybe he's gone round the twist and will end up leaping out a window under the delusion that he's an Olympic diver. Maybe Go Ask Alice was a true story after all.

A man in a three-piece suit meets them at the airport. He flashes a badge, says something in Spanish, and the blokes in the anti-radiation gear back off half a step. "I'm Ianto Jones," he adds, in a reassuringly familiar Welsh accent. "And you'd be... Banana Boat?"

Banana's so overwhelmed by relief that he hugs Ianto Jones, clinging to him like a lifeline, until the men in the radiation suits grab him, yelling in Spanish. Ianto Jones snaps back at them-- inofensivo, seguro, and they let go. A few more words and they're slinking away, obviously dismissed.

"Sorry about that," Ianto says. "Should never have told them you were radioactive." He pulls a pocket watch from his waistcoat, glancing at it. "Better hurry; we'll be late." He strides off down the concourse without waiting for a reply, and Banana can do nothing but scramble after him.

"Wait," he pants, trying to keep up. "I'm radioactive?"

Ianto flashes his badge at a gate attendant, and they're being hustled towards first class. Down the rabbit hole indeed. "Nothing to worry about," Ianto says, settling into his seat. "Care for a drink?"

*

Next morning, he wakes up in his own bed, with a hangover and no idea how he got back to Cardiff. But it's not the first time, so he's not worried.

He knew it'd sort itself out.

Writer in a Drawer, weeks Five and Six

2008-05-19T15:12:54Z

So I won Week Four, which was thrilling. And, as real life proceeded to kick my arse around and up and down, it became a bright spot in what is turning out to be a very, very, very bad month. It's kind of astonishing how these small things can help so much.

Week Five's theme was "Insult to Injury," with the bonus element of a television show. I don't know much about television in the UK (except for Dr. Who and Torchwood, but that's far too meta for me), so I went with "The Bill," because I at least know of a catchphrase for it. That led me to writing a PC Cooper story. I liked it when I was writing it, and I still do. I think it's solid. Also, for once, it fit the word count pretty easily.

Title: Day One
Rating: PG
Spoilers: None

Gwen rubbed absently at her arm; she'd have some pretty bruises, and not just there, either. God, what a mess. Nothing like what she'd expected.

"You all right?" Andy leaned against the wall next to her. His split lip had stopped bleeding, but she reckoned he'd have a spectacular black eye in the morning. That bloke in the Cardiff Blues colours had gotten him pretty well. "Bit of a rough do in there."

Understatement of the century, that. But he wasn't whinging, so Gwen knew she couldn't either. "It's a bit different from The Bill, isn't it?" she said. "Emma Keane never got a pint of bitter poured over her head. At least not in any episodes I've seen."

Andy laughed, and Gwen felt a bit better for hearing it. "Next time, we'll rush in shouting 'You're nicked!' Maybe they'll put up less of a fight, then."

"Couldn't hurt to try." Gwen ran fingers through her damp, sticky hair. God, she smelled like a brewery. "Rhys is never going to believe this," she muttered. "He'll think I went out on the lash or something."

"Rhys," Andy repeated, and he sounded a bit tense just then. "Who's that, then, your fella?"

"That's right," Gwen said, trying not to sound as defensive as she felt. "Have you got someone?"

Andy shrugged. "Nah." He stared up at the sky for a few moments. It was starting to rain, icy drops soaking through Gwen's jacket, freezing her where she stood. "Right. Let's get back to the station, then?"

He didn't wait for Gwen to agree before he was striding off into the darkness; feeling vaguely insulted, Gwen hurried after him.

Week Six... Yeah, kind of the less said, the better on this one. The prompt was "Busted;" the added element, a craft (knitting, etc.) I started off with a brilliant idea, as I always do, that proved to need far more space than I had. So I scrapped it, and started casting about for something else. Then my real life went to hell. All in all, I'm impressed that I wrote anything at all. This was a piece that I was hoping would let me hide in the tall grass. The grass was not as tall as I thought. I just barely survived. But I did survive, so there is that.

At least I got to write knitting Ianto. I do like knitting Ianto.

Title: The Beginning (of a Beautiful Friendship)
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: None

Tosh stopped halfway through the garage, hearing noises from the SUV, a sort of faint squeaking accompanied by rhythmic grunts. It sounded like... And then she heard Suzie's voice, ragged but still fierce, taunting him. "Come on, Owen... Is that really your best? And I thought..." Then Suzie moaned, and Tosh turned and fled, not caring if they heard her heels clicking against the cement flooring.

The tears started halfway down the corridor, blinding her as she stumbled along. She wasn't sure why she was crying, why she felt so humiliated, why she hadn't seen... Stupid, stupid, stupid... She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and kept running, up stairs and around corners and through doors, still hearing their voices mingled, that moan.

She burst into the kitchenette without looking where she was going, and tripped over a pair of long legs, spilling forward onto the ground as large hands clutched at her, trying to catch her. "Miss Sato! Are you... Here, let me..." Then Ianto Jones' hands were closing around her arms, and she looked up. His face was worried, and she realized, too late, that she'd let him catch her crying. "Toshiko? What happened? Is everything all right?"

"No," she said, and her voice was perilously unsteady. She tried to pick herself up, but one of her shoes had lost a heel, and she stumbled back into Ianto's chest. "I'm... It's all right, really. I just... I don't want to interrupt your --"

"Knitting?"

She blinked at him and he gestured back at the sofa. There was a half-finished scarf laying there, stitches starting to slip off one of the needles. "Bad habit of mine, I'm afraid. Anyway. I was just about to make a pot of tea, if you'd like a cup?"

Suzie and Owen would be coming back up any second, and she couldn't look at them, couldn't hear their voices and know... "Thanks, but... I think I just need some fresh air."

"Excellent. There's a little place, just around the corner. We'll go there." She opened her mouth to protest, and Ianto raised one eyebrow, just a little, but just enough. Then he held out his arm, and she took it, kicking off her shoes as they walked out of the room.

She wasn't sure why she felt better, but she did, and that was enough.

So I lived to write another day. And then I got the prompt that made me happiest of all. Details to follow.

Writer in a Drawer, Week Four: A Winner is Me!

2008-05-02T15:47:26Z

So. Week three sucked. I almost defaulted. I hated my story. Although I made it through with some positive reviews, I was nervous as hell about the next round.

Then I saw the theme. Team Weevil was given a list of West Wing episode titles. The challenge? Use one of the titles as the title and basis for a story of your own. (Added element: A coin.) I clicked the link, and damn near squealed. So many good titles. So little time.

I grabbed a notebook and jotted down every title that stood out to me. It was not at all a short list. Then I pondered. "He Shall, From Time to Time," really spoke to me. I loved "Freedonia," because how often do you get to riff on the Marx Brothers? "On the Day Before" would be perfect for an "Exit Wounds" fic...

But I kept coming back to "The Fall's Gonna Kill You." I am, when all is said and done, a Jack/Ianto shipper, and the title just fit so well. The story itself came out very naturally, with a minimum of fuss and fighting. When it was all done with, I sat back and knew that no matter what, I was proud of this one.

It was a good feeling. And then I won, and that was even better!

The story itself wasn't universally loved; I actually had two negative votes on it, which wasn't much of a surprise. Rather than writing one single story, I wrote five loosely-connected drabbles, and that's not going to work for everyone. I'm still happy with it, though.

And I'm happy to have immunity. Immunity is nice.

Title: The Fall's Gonna Kill You
Author: lookninjas
Rating: PG-13, for language
Spoilers: "Fragments"

Summary: He could still break his own fall.

1.

One moment, Jack was clinging to the pterodactyl's leg, syringe in one hand, kicking and flailing. Then he was falling, barely enough time to look down and realize --

He slammed into flesh and bone, strong arms wrapping around him as both men toppled to the floor. Ianto took the brunt of the fall, Jack's weight driving him backwards; it had to hurt, but Ianto was laughing, breathless, eyes bright. All Jack could think was He caught me. The stupid bastard caught me.

That, in the end, was what changed Jack's mind.

2.

Ianto Jones was a man in free-fall, but Jack didn't realize it. Then it was too late -- there was a cyberconversion unit in the third subbasement and two dead bodies next to it, and Ianto on his knees, broken by the impact.

Jack was tempted to leave him there.

But then he remembered how Ianto had stood, with his arms open wide, bracing himself to break Jack's fall. It was too late for Jack to return the favor, but he had to do something. So he sighed, crouched down, and began to pick up the pieces.

3.

The stopwatch fell from Ianto's hand. Then he had Jack by the collar, dragging him in with unexpected greed. Jack laughed, breathless, and tried to steer Ianto towards the couch. Their legs tangled, and they toppled gracelessly, Jack's head hitting the floor with a solid thunk.

"Jack!" Ianto's eyes were worried; he pushed himself up and away from Jack's body. "Are you all right?"

Jack growled and pulled him back down again. He figured that was answer enough.

4.

When the Doctor came, Jack ran to him.

Then everything went wrong.

Losing his team, losing Ianto, hurt more than he'd ever imagined. And even though the Doctor managed to put things right in the end, Jack knew he would have to lose them (him) all over again someday. And it would be so much worse the second time around.

He could break his own fall. He could go with the Doctor, pull back before he got too attached. He could keep himself safe.

Instead, he saluted, turned on his heel, and sprinted back to the Plass.

5.

On the screen, Cyd Charisse flipped a coin, caught it again, tossed it in Gene Kelly's face.

Back in the real world, Ianto stirred in his sleep, shifting restlessly on Jack's lap. Jack stroked his hair and rubbed his back until he relaxed again, his breath coming deep and even, one hand resting on Jack's thigh.

Jack closed his eyes. He could feel the wind whistling past his ears as he dropped like a stone, falling faster and faster.

It felt a little like flying.

Note: The movie mentioned at the end is, of course, Singin' in the Rain

Writer in a Drawer, Week Three

2008-05-02T15:06:32Z

Week Three's theme was super powers -- mental for Team Pterodactyl, physical for Team Weevil (added element: A book.) I was thrilled; I grew up on comic books, so this was going to be easy. I already knew what I wanted to do: a riff on what happened to Kitty Pryde after the Morlock Massacre, when intangibility became her natural state and staying solid became a struggle for her, with Tosh as my Shadowcat. Easy. Right?

Heh.

The thing is, when you grow up reading nothing but origin stories, you want your first go at the genre to be perfect in every way. And that just wasn't happening for me. I'd write two paragraphs, delete them, write two new paragraphs, delete them... repeat this for a while, decide that my first version was the best one, revert back to that only to realize it was terrible and I was clearly delusional, write, delete, write, delete... I did this for two days solid, until I realized that time was running out and I had to just stick with something, or default out of the competition.

I was so frustrated that defaulting began to seem like a viable option.

But dammit, a woman has her pride. So I sat down one last time, and came out with a story that, although not perfect, was still pretty good. And I got some good reviews, and I made it through another round. I still have mixed emotions, though. Objectively speaking, it's a good, solid story. There's a lot that I like about it. On the other hand, it's always going to remind me of how frustrated I was that week, so I kind of can't like it, even though I know I should.

Title: Shadow
Author: lookninjas
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Uncanny X-Men #129

Summary: If she doesn't concentrate, she'll fall forever.

"Tosh, are you sure there's something here?" Gwen asked, glancing around the room. "It's all a bit... well..."

"Normal," Owen finished, plucking a book off the shelves and flipping through it. He grimaced. "Well, not that normal."

Tosh looked down at her scanner. "No, there's definitely something here. Actually..." She turned in place, looked up, and found herself staring at a small porcelain cat on the mantelpiece. It seemed harmless enough. Definitely in keeping with the overall decor. Tosh checked the scanner again, and smiled. "Here we are, then."

She picked the cat up, turning it over. There were runes scratched into the base; they looked a bit like hieroglyphs, but there was something...

"Tosh!" The panic in Ianto's voice made her look up. For a moment, she couldn't figure out why he seemed so much taller than he had before, why everything in the room was at the wrong angle. Then she realized that she was sinking into the floor, had already gone through up to her waist.

She reached out desperately, and Owen dropped the book and grabbed at her. His hands went through hers like she wasn't even there, and she kept falling, through the ceiling tiles and into the first floor kitchen. She braced herself for impact on the lino floor, but it never came.

As she slipped into the darkness of the cellar, she realized she'd fall forever if she couldn't focus, concentrate...

Tosh closed her eyes, bit her lip, and tried to pull all the molecules of her body into a solid mass. All at once, gravity reasserted itself, and she hit the dirt floor of the cellar with a rush and a gasp, her ankle twisting painfully as she fell over sideways. The porcelain cat tumbled from her hand.

She heard footsteps pounding along the floor above her, voices calling out, but didn't reply. Her head ached and her ankle throbbed, and it was all she could do to force her eyes open. The porcelain cat was sitting, upright and undamaged, bare inches from her face. In the dim light, it almost seemed to be smiling.

When she reached out, her hand passed right through it.

Writer in a Drawer, Week Two

2008-05-02T14:39:30Z

So. The theme for the second week of WIAD was diary entries; Team Weevil's had to center around an event from Season Two (The added feature, this go-around, was "weather.")

I immediately had a brilliant idea involving Captain John. And then I watched Exit Wounds, and got Jossed. Hard. (I also had a really hard time writing after that -- I think I was too busy grieving. Anyway.) After that, I had another good idea, about Ianto's father. Unfortunately, it didn't fit the prompt in any way, shape or form, so I had to scrap it. Still might write that one, though.

This was Idea Three. I like it well enough. Martha's a fun character, and I like her voice. It's not as elegant as it could have been, but obviously it got me through, so there you are. I'd like it better, though, if it weren't for Idea Four, which came to me two days after voting started. It's a brilliant idea, though.

Anyway. Story time.

Title: Martha Jones's Diary
Author: lookninjas
Rating: Barely PG, if that. She's from Doctor Who, you know.
Spoilers: DW series 3, TW series 2, through beginning of "Reset."

Summary: Martha gets to see that team of Jack's for the first time.

9 April 2009

Last time I was in Cardiff, it was bloody freezing and threatening rain. This time... It's bloody freezing and threatening rain. At least it's consistent. And it didn't actually rain, which is good, as it would've completely ruined my hair. Jack would've never let me hear the end of it if I'd come in looking like a drowned rat.

Bad enough that I spent ages trying to sort out what to wear, and finally settled on that smart little red and black suit, the one I wore my first day at UNIT. So I go in the front entrance, looking for this Ianto Jones fellow, and guess what he's wearing? Red and black suit. Jack thought it was hilarious: Jones and Jones, in our matching outfits. Took ages to shut him up about it.

(He's right, though. Ianto does looks good in red.)

I have to say, I was a bit nervous about meeting Owen Harper. Torchwood aren't known for playing well with others (or at least UNIT), and everyone says Owen's the worst of the lot. And he fancies himself quite a bit, I can't argue that, but he honestly knows his stuff. Once I'd settled in a bit and we started running some tests... It was fun, you know? Just bouncing ideas off each other, going over the data, helping each other out. Working together, as equals. It was lovely.

They're all lovely, really. It's so much more comfortable than I imagined it would be. The Doctor made Torchwood sound so cold, just this blind struggle for power. And maybe that's what it used to be. But Jack's made it different; he really has. It's everything he said it was.

And he's so happy. I can't get over that. After everything he went through that year, he's really happy. It sort of...brings it all home, in a way. Everything we sacrificed, this is what it was for. To save this.

But. Work to be done, people to save, murders to solve. Hopefully I'll actually get some time for that dinner Jack promised me. We've got heaps to catch up on.

-- Dr. Martha Jones

(For the record: I did toy with the idea of really lifting from Bridget Jones' Diary and giving a little header that said things like "Aliens Dissected: None so far. Times Had to Run For Life: Twice, once when Owen fired off that alien gizmo, once when pterodactyl wanted me to play fetch." But that seemed a bit over the top to me, and out of character for Martha, so I held off on it.)

One Shot: And I'll Be Gone

2008-04-14T11:14:05Z

Title: And I'll Be Gone
Author: lookninjas
Characters: Ianto, Owen
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Great big spoilers for 2.13, "Exit Wounds." Seriously, if you're trying to remain unspoiled, do not read.

Summary: Owen leaves a message of his own.

Notes: Big thanks to seize, who kept me from overdoing it.

Owen's refrigerator was completely empty, save for the envelope that had been tucked into the vegetable crisper, Ianto's name scrawled on it in the doctor's almost-indecipherable hand. It hadn't been sealed, of course; Owen never could stand the taste of the glue, probably the only thing he wouldn't willingly put in his mouth...

Ianto's breath caught, then, and he had to lean heavily on the refrigerator door for support.

It took a bit, but eventually he was able to open the envelope, his hands only shaking a little, and pull out the letter. Owen had typed out this final message, which was a relief, albeit a painful one. Ianto would never struggle over that terrible handwriting again, never have to ask what each scribble meant, never...

He closed his eyes, took a few deep breaths. Wallowing wouldn't help anything, it never did. He blinked the tears away and started to read.

Ianto --

Figured I'd better get around to writing one of these, as no one really knows when this "energy" or whatever it is is going to dissipate and leave me dead again. Deader. I don't know. Could be hours, days, weeks, years maybe. But I reckon it's best not to take the chance. Hope you're appropriately grateful.

I figure it's you and Jack doing this, probably, and you're the only one who'd think to clean out the fridge. Jack's probably got his nose in my porn stash. Speaking of, if Gwen drops by for sentimental reasons, keep her out of the bedroom, yeah? I know she's not got any ideas about my being some sort of pure, upstanding bloke, but there's a difference between knowing and seeing. If you can, smuggle that shit out and, you know, get rid of it. Some things I don't want to leave behind for future generations of Torchwood employees. Their loss, I know. It's just a weird thought. Suppose I could just get rid of it myself, like I've got rid of everything else, but... Sentimental reasons, I guess. Or just to make you uncomfortable. Whichever you choose.

There's some pictures I want Tosh to have --

Ianto choked back a sob, the letter falling to his side. This time, it took him a lot longer to gather the courage to keep reading.

There's some pictures I want Tosh to have; I'm sure you'll know which ones. Look after her for me, yeah? She's a good girl. She'll find someone, someone better for her than I would have been, but right now she's probably taking it badly. Guess I don't need to tell you that. Or tell you to look out for her. Just, you know, I did care. I do care. If I didn't, things would have been different. But she's too good for the likes of me. There'll be someone who deserves her, somewhere down the line.

Whatever I've got in the bank... give it to my mother, I guess. Haven't got a favorite charity, and she did spend a bit on me growing up, so I guess I'll just consider it repayment. All debts cleared away.

Obviously, most of my shit's getting locked in some storage facility. But do yourself a favor and take some of the CDs with you, yeah? Proper music. Not Super Furry Animals or Moby or whatever shit you listen to. It'll do you good.

Tell Jack he's an idiot.

On second thought, don't. Guess this isn't his fault, really. And I can't blame him for trying to keep the team together as long as possible. Wish he'd found a better way than by turning me into a zombie, but... welcome to Torchwood, I guess. We always fuck it up somehow. But for fuck's sake, if you find another glove (or a hat, or a scarf, or whatever), don't let him do it again, all right? Bloody exhausting, getting dragged back all the time.

Suppose there's no need to worry. You'll do what's best; you always do, or at least you try, and that's more than I can say for me.

Right, I'll wrap this up before it gets too soppy. Don't want you crying all over my last will and testament. Watch over the girls for me (and yes, I am including Jack in that one).

Cheers,

Owen.

P.S. -- Stop screwing Jack in the greenhouse. You're traumatizing my plants.

The laugh that escaped Ianto was followed by a sob, then another and another. He gave up entirely on trying to keep himself composed and just cried, clinging to the open refrigerator door for support. The letter fell to the floor unnoticed, one more thing to be picked up and packed away.

Writer in a Drawer -- Week 1

2008-04-12T15:53:38Z

Survived the first round, thank heavens. I've been debating posting this story -- it did reasonably well, but I don't know. In retrospect, I should never have tried to squeeze this down to 250 words. But in the end, I thought I'd just post this here, along with the original version, which was just over 400 words, in case anyone feels like reading them.

The prompt for this was "Girls' Night In" -- female characters only, and it had to take place in the Hub. Somehow, I wound up writing Suzie monologuing about Catholicism, and then topped it off with a Dostoevsky quote. And I didn't stand out all that much, either. I was pretty proud of Team Weevil -- we took the prompt and ran off in all kinds of cool directions. Makes the competition pretty tense, though.

Anyway, story time. Comments/queries are always welcome. And yes, "What were you thinking?" is a perfectly valid query.

Title: Little Souls
Rating: PG
Spoilers/Warnings: None.

"Someone brought up Marthe Robin tonight," Suzie said, tipping her chair back a bit, so her head rested against the wall. "It made me think of you."

Lisa didn't answer, but then, Lisa never did.

"You probably don't even know who she is. Most people don't." Suzie sighed. "She was sort of... the French Padre Pio, I suppose. One of Therese of Lisieux's 'Little Souls,' people who were born to suffer, to help expiate the sins of everyone else around them. Like that American girl... what was it... Audrey Santo? The one that fell into a coma and now people make pilgrimages to her bedside, and say she does miracles and heals the sick and all that. Meanwhile, she'll never have a normal life, never get to have a boyfriend or go to a dance or anything. The only time she goes outside is in a glass box -- they set her up on a sports field and people can come and gape at her, like a zoo or something. I mean, it's all a bit sick, isn't it? The whole concept, really. Someone else suffering for our sins, whilst we're free to do as we like. Just pray the rosary and go to confession, and you're clear. It just..." She stopped short, buried her head in her hands.

In the silence, she could hear the hum of machinery, the soft shushing noises of the respirator. All those things keeping Lisa alive, and for what? What sort of life did she have now?

"I should tell the others, I really should," Suzie muttered. "But I don't, do I? I suppose I'm just as bad as anyone else, really. Waiting for you to expiate my sins. Do you do miracles, Lisa? Maybe we should take you to Medugorje. See what the Blessed Virgin has to say about you."

Lisa's eyes were still closed. She said nothing.

"'And if the sufferings of children go to swell the sum of sufferings which was necessary to pay for truth, then I protest that the truth is not worth such a price.'" Suzie sighed again, and stood up. "Dostoevsky wrote that. Brothers Karamazov. It's a nice thought, isn't it? Shame most of us don't give a damn about the sufferings of children. Just as long as we get our truth." She touched Lisa's cheek. "Anyway. Until next time."

The hum of the machinery followed Suzie all the way down the hall.

"Someone brought up Marthe Robin tonight," Suzie said, leaning back in her chair. "I thought of you."

Lisa didn't answer, but then, Lisa never did.

"You probably don't even know who she is." Suzie sighed. "She was sort of... the French Padre Pio, I suppose. One of St. Therese's 'Little Souls,' people who suffer so the rest of us don't have to. Like that girl, Audrey Santo. Fell into a coma, and now people make pilgrimages to see her, hoping she'll help them. Heal them. Meanwhile, she'll never have a normal life, never go to a dance or anything. People gaping at her like she's in a zoo. I mean, it's sick, isn't it? Someone else suffering for our sins. It just..." She stopped short, buried her head in her hands.

In the silence, she could hear the hum of the machines keeping Lisa alive.

"I should tell the others about you, I really should," Suzie muttered. "But I don't, do I? I don't."

Lisa's eyes were still closed. She said nothing.

"'And if the sufferings of children go to swell the sum of sufferings which was necessary to pay for truth, then I protest that the truth is not worth such a price.'" Suzie sighed again, and stood up. "Dostoevsky wrote that. Brothers Karamazov. It's a nice thought, isn't it?" She touched Lisa's cheek. "Anyway. Until next time."

The hum of the machines followed Suzie all the way down the hall.

You never really know how short 250 words is until you've tried it, believe me. Four hundred words seems such a luxury now...

One-shot: Motherless Boys

2008-04-10T11:08:18Z

Title: Motherless Boys
Author: lookninjas
Characters: Jack/Ianto
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: "From Out of the Rain," and "Adrift"

Summary: Ianto doesn't ask about Jack's family, so Jack doesn't ask about Ianto's.

Notes: Much, much love to seize and ffarff for all their assistance with this fic.

Ianto never asked Jack about his family, so Jack never asked about Ianto's. It wasn't that he didn't care, only that he knew what it was like to want to keep the past in the past, to bury some things past the reach of memory. And pushing Ianto to talk would only result in an even more obdurate silence. Patience had never really been one of Jack's strong suits, but there were some things worth waiting for.

Eventually, Ianto started to share little things, crumbs of information, always about his father. "My father was a master tailor." "My father taught me not to speak ill of the dead." "My father used to take me to the Electro." He never said anything about his mother, and Jack knew that silence, knew what it meant. But Ianto hadn't asked about Jack's mother, so Jack couldn't, in good conscience, ask about Ianto's. He could only wait.

Then Jack found himself standing in a hospital room, Ianto at his side, two small children laying fragile and pale in their hospital beds. For some reason, it made him think of his brother, of Grey. He wasn't sure why. "Those words," one of the nurses was saying. "'From out of the rain.' I'm sure I've heard them before."

Jack glanced at Ianto, whose eyebrows were raised slightly in interest. It was the slightest of leads, but it was still a lead. "Oh! I remember. It was Christina. She was a patient."

"Here?" Jack asked, feeling his pulse speed up a bit. If she was still here, they could go and find her, question her. Even if she couldn't tell them much, it might help. The case had been dragging on too long, and too many had died. They needed something.

"No, at Providence Park. It's a psychiatric hospital."

"I know it," Ianto said, quickly. Too quickly. He glanced at Jack for just a moment before his gaze skittered away.

Most of Ianto's personnel records had survived the battle of Canary Wharf -- not all of them, but most. His medical history, certainly, was complete. So Jack knew that Ianto had never been to Providence Park as anything more than a visitor. But someone else had been there, someone close to him.

"She was a full-time patient," the nurse was saying, and Jack forced himself to attend. "Been there since she was a child." He reminded himself that Ianto would talk when he was ready to talk. "She was a strange one." There wasn't any point in pressing him. "Whenever anything, any kind of entertainment show was laid on, she became scared." But the air in the room had changed, subtly. There was a weight on Ianto's shoulders that hadn't been there before. "She'd run away and hide."

The case came first. He couldn't worry about Ianto right now. "Did she say why?" he asked, and didn't look at Ianto anymore.

*

Ianto was leaning against the wall as Jack entered the ward, PDA in his hands, working away. The lines between his eyes were deeper than usual, and his eyes were dark-circled; Jack wished briefly, intensely, that he'd never got Ianto mixed up in this. Too late, though. "What have we got?" he asked, drawing near.

When Ianto glanced up from the little screen, his eyes were troubled. "Police brought the man in about an hour ago. He looks to be about fifty or so, but it's hard to say -- he's covered over with old burn scars. No way of knowing how old he is or what he might have looked like before." Ianto took a breath, a little pause, before adding, "He was screaming when they found him. Kept right on screaming until they got him in a room and sedated him. The nurses I spoke to were still pretty shaken; apparently they could hear him three floors up. Never heard anything like it."

The nurses weren't the only ones shaken; there was a slight tremor in Ianto's voice, the barest hint of strain. "Did he say what had happened to him?" Jack asked. "Give a name? Anything?"

"Just the screaming." Ianto reached into his pocket, pulled out a battered bit of plastic on a string, and handed it to Jack. "But he had this tied around his neck."

It was a library card, yellowed with age, melted and scorched around the edges, bent and broken but somehow intact. Someone had punched a hole through it and worn it like a good luck charm, a talisman, a relic from a previous life. Jack peered at it, trying to read the name. "Jonah Bevan?" he asked.

Ianto nodded. "Disappeared two weeks ago, on his way home from football practice. Fifteen years old. His mother's been all over trying to get him back." He sighed, looking up at Jack again. "The police think it's possible our patient might have been involved in the disappearance, or at least know something. He had to have gotten the library card somehow."

Jack looked at the library card again. It looked like it had spent forty years at the far edge of the universe, through war and fire and destruction. It looked like it had seen hell. "The police who found him -- are they still here?"

"They're hoping he'll be more coherent when he comes out from the sedatives," Ianto said. "So they're waiting." He studied Jack for a while. "That's Jonah, isn't it? That man, our patient. That's Jonah Bevan."

Jack produced a little bottle of pills from his pocket, and Ianto took it. "Standard amnesia protocol, for everyone who might have seen the patient," Jack said. "I'll call Helen. Let her know that we're bringing him in."

Ianto turned as if to leave, but then stopped, looking back over his shoulder. "You should probably..." For a moment, he looked as if he didn't know what to say. "Tell her he's... he's in a bad way. She needs to be ready for it."

Jack caught Ianto's wrist, rubbed his thumb up under the cuff of his shirt to stroke the soft skin over his pulse. It was the closest he could come to apologizing. "I'll warn her," he said, quietly.

"Thank you," Ianto said, and the lines between his eyes didn't seem so deep anymore. Then he pulled away, and went to start the cleanup.

*

Ianto drove them to Providence Park without speaking. Jack's mind was buzzing with questions, and the silence stretched between them, frayed, pushed to the breaking point. It dug into Jack's skin until he could hardly sit still. But he waited, waited until Ianto pulled the SUV into a parking spot, turned off the engine, and took a deep breath. Both his hands rested on the steering wheel -- not clutching, just holding, and when he spoke, his voice was almost normal. "My mother," he said. "Been in and out of hospital since I was just a boy. She hasn't been here for ages, though." The slightest emphasis on the word here, just enough that Jack got the hint. Maybe Ianto's mother hadn't been to Providence Park for a while, but that didn't mean she'd gotten better. Ianto took another deep breath, kept his eyes focused on the windscreen. "Don't feel sorry for me, Jack."

"Never," Jack said, and rested his hand over one of Ianto's. It was a relief when Ianto's fingers interlaced with his. He wasn't being shut out. He could work with that.

For a few moments, they sat there, together, and the silence was comfortable now. Then Ianto straightened his shoulders, let go of Jack's hand, and slid out of the SUV. Jack could only follow him, and hope the conversation wasn't over.

*

"He keeps asking for his mother," Ianto said, his voice hushed and strained. There was a strange sadness in his eyes, one Jack was becoming increasingly familiar with. "Jack, can't we --"

"No." Ianto turned his face away quickly, but not quickly enough to hide that flash of hurt, and Jack relented a bit, resting his hand on Ianto's shoulder. "She wouldn't understand, Ianto. It's not..." He trailed off for a moment, lost in memories, and returned to find Ianto looking at him with something akin to worry. "It'd be too much for her to take in. It's better this way, believe me."

A nurse brushed past them with an armload of fresh linen, and they broke apart. Ianto leaned against the rough-hewn wall of their underground clinic and closed his eyes. "He asked me if he was home yet," he murmured, hands deep in his pockets, shoulders slumped. "According to Helen, he asks everyone if he's home. He thinks he's still wandering out there, lost. Can't blame him, really. Sometimes this place is an awful lot like a prison." Jack bristled a bit, and Ianto held out a soothing hand. "I'm not... You do the best you can. I'm not arguing that. But nothing here is familiar to him. If he could just see his mother..."

"And what if she refuses to believe that it's really him? What if she looks him right in the eye and says 'You're not my son?'" Jack's breath caught in his throat unexpectedly, and he had to look away for a moment to prevent Ianto seeing anything he shouldn't. "He's hurt enough, Ianto. I won't make it worse."

"She's his mother, Jack," Ianto protested. As if biology trumped all else. As if there really were such a thing as unconditional love.

But there wasn't. Jack had learned that as a boy. "No, Ianto. And that's final."

Ianto stared at him a bit longer, then turned on his heel and strode briskly away, back up towards the surface of Flat Holm. Jack watched him go with a sigh.

*

Ianto insisted on wheeling Christina back to her room when they were done speaking, and Jack trailed along after them, watching. Things must have changed a bit since Ianto had last visited; he paused from time to time, frowning at hallways and staircases, until Christina, laughing, pointed him in the right direction.

Someone had made a sign for Christina's door, her name written in bright colors, with flowers and butterflies drawn around it. It made Jack think of Flat Holm, of the little chalkboards on the doors, and he swallowed hard. Ianto was already pushing Christina into her room, helping her out of her chair and walking her the few steps to the bed. When she sat down, he knelt in front of her and started to unlace her heavy orthopaedic shoes. She looked down at his dark head with curiosity and a strange sort of affection. "You don't belong here," she said again.

Ianto glanced up at her; Jack couldn't see the expression on his face. For a moment, her shaking hand rested on his cheek. "So old," she murmured, and Jack swallowed hard.

Ianto's shoulders tensed under his suit jacket, his whole body going rigid. But then Christina's hand fell away, and Ianto took a deep breath and stood. "Shall I take your coat, or would you rather go to sleep with it on?" he asked, his voice gentle, teasing just a little. Christina flushed and smiled at him, the moment forgotten.

He took her coat and the heavy sweater she wore underneath, handing them to Jack to be hung up, then put her to bed, tucking the covers over her. "Thank you," he said, crouching by the bed, his hand over hers. "Thank you for talking to us, Christina."

"You'll stop them, won't you?" she asked. "You won't let them steal my breath."

"I promise," Ianto said. "Sleep well." Then he drew back, returning to Jack's side. Jack switched the lights off as they left the room, and closed the door behind them.

The tension returned to Ianto's shoulders as soon as they were in the hallway, the line of his back unnaturally straight. He didn't look at Jack once, but marched briskly through the halls, as if he couldn't get out of Providence Park fast enough. Jack could only wait and watch and follow.

Ianto stopped when he'd gotten out to the carpark, put his hands on his hips, let his head drop down. Jack rested a hand on his shoulder. "All right?" he asked, squeezing slightly.

Ianto nodded without looking up. "Gave me a bit of a turn when she said that, about me having old eyes." He might have sounded calm if Jack hadn't known him so well. "Only my mother used to say that all the time. That my eyes were too old. I never quite knew what she meant by it." He looked back at the buildings; the sun had peeked out from behind the clouds for a moment, and Providence Park looked almost beautiful, all red brick and green grass, shade trees and flowers. There were, Jack supposed, worse places to end up. "She doesn't talk anymore," Ianto added, his voice very flat.

He pulled away from Jack's touch and hurried to the SUV without another word.

*

He wasn't surprised that Ianto was the one to follow him out of the conference room after Gwen's little lecture. For just a moment, he hated both of them, for always agreeing with each other, always arguing with him. He hated them for being so innocent, and he hated them for blindly charging into situations that would take that innocence away from them. He hated them for not understanding, and he hated them for trying to understand. "No," he snapped, before Ianto even opened his mouth.

Ianto blinked twice, startled, but he recovered fast, brave as always. "You heard Gwen. That woman is desperate to find her son. We can help her."

"She only thinks she wants the truth," Jack said, feeling a muscle twitch in his jaw. "If she had the slightest idea what had really happened --"

"She would still want to know!" Ianto's voice rose dangerously, and he visibly checked himself. "You're a bloody hypocrite, Jack Harkness, do you know that?"

Jack's eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"

There was no intimidating Ianto, though, not now. "If Hart walked into the Hub right now, and said he would take you to Grey, you'd be after him without a second's thought. Even if it killed you, you'd go. Because you want answers. It's not any different for Jonah's mother."

That hit home, and Jack felt the blood drain from his face. "You don't know anything about it," he muttered, before turning to leave. There was the barest pause before he heard Ianto following him, his tread measured, steady, relentless.

He hated Ianto, then, for his refusal to give up, let go. He hated Ianto for being such a fighter.

*

Ianto lay stiffly in Jack's arms for a long time, long enough that Jack wondered if he would ever relax. All he could do was run light fingers over Ianto's shoulder and down his arm, brush his lips against the back of Ianto's neck, cradle him close and wait as Ianto took one deep breath after another, as if willing himself to calm down.

"They wouldn't let me visit her," he said, finally, his voice so soft that Jack could barely hear it over the quiet humming of the Hub's machinery. "My dad just told me she was in the hospital, and that I'd be able to see her when she got better. But she was gone so long, I thought... I didn't understand it. I thought she was dying."

Jack draped his arm around Ianto's chest, just holding him.

"Then they finally said I could see her. I'd missed her... you've no idea how much." Jack flinched inwardly at that, but didn't say anything. "I'm not sure what I was expecting. Maybe that she'd have a cast on her leg or something. Or that she'd be bald, like when Idris Hopper's mum had cancer and lost her hair. But she looked the same as she always had, mostly. It was just..." His breath caught in his throat. Jack kissed his shoulder. "It was her eyes. There was something... something missing in her eyes."

Jack squeezed his eyes tight closed, and buried his face in Ianto's hair. He remembered that look all too well.

"I'd thought that she'd smile or something, you know, that she'd be so happy to see me. But then she turned away, went back to staring out the window. She wouldn't even say anything. I couldn't understand what I'd done wrong. They gave me a little chair to sit in, and Dad talked to her, just simple things, how the shop was doing and how I was in school, ordinary things. She wouldn't look at him either. And she didn't say anything. He talked and talked until they told us it was time to go, and she didn't say anything."

Jack remembered that, too, the silence that he tried so hard to fill, the quiet indifference he could never crack. It hurt, knowing that Ianto went through the same.

"Afterwards, Dad told me that it had done her good to see me, that I'd have to come in as often as I could, that she was better for having me around. And they did let her come home eventually, so I thought he must have been right. But then she'd get bad again, and they'd put her in hospital, and she wouldn't say anything to anyone. I'd visit, and they'd tell me I'd helped her. But I didn't, obviously, or it wouldn't have kept happening."

He blamed himself for not being able to save her. Jack knew the feeling. "Do you still visit her?"

"Sometimes." Ianto sighed, relaxing into Jack's arms. "Not as often as I should. I know... It's not just me. She doesn't talk to anyone. It's just... It's stupid, I suppose."

Jack kissed his hair again. "It's not stupid at all."

"I thought someday I'd get used to it," Ianto admitted. "That it wouldn't bother me anymore. I mean, it isn't anything new. My whole life has been this way. But it hasn't gotten any easier."

The words were out before Jack could stop them. "It never does."

Ianto shifted slightly in Jack's hold, turning to look up at him.

Jack closed his eyes, took a deep breath in, let it out slowly. "Not now. Later, maybe."

They were tense and silent together for a moment. "All right," Ianto said. He reached up, found Jack's hand draped over his belly, and laced their fingers together. Jack held him tightly.

They didn't say anything else, and eventually, Ianto fell asleep.

*

They waited in a corner of the room until the members of the support group drifted back out into the night, huddled in groups of two or three. Nikki Bevan was left alone, clearing up the remainder of the food and drink. She didn't look up as they approached, but she knew they were there; her hands trembled on the punch bowl. "I've nothing to say to your lot," she muttered.

"Ms. Bevan," Ianto said, his hands clasped behind his back, knuckles white. "My name is Ianto Jones. I'm here to talk to you about Jonah."

"And I've nothing to say to you," she repeated, her voice louder now. "Haven't you done enough?"

Ianto took a half-step back, and Jack itched to just pull him out of the room. But he couldn't. Ianto would never forgive him. "Ms. Bevan," Ianto said, his voice softer. "Please. I know it's hard..."

"Do you now?" She finally turned to look at him, face flushed with anger and eyes tear-filled. "What could you possibly know about any of it?"

Ianto went pale at that, and didn't answer.

Nikki softened. "I can't do it. I'm sorry. I can't look at those scars and hear that screaming... There's nothing I can do to help him. If I thought I could, if I thought there was anything..."

"Of course," Ianto said, a bit stiffly. "I'm sorry to have intruded. It won't happen again." He nodded his head, and retreated to the door.

It was Jack's turn to approach, hand wrapped around the bottle of pills in his pocket. "You don't have to remember what you've seen, Ms. Bevan. You can remember Jonah how he was before. If you want."

She shook her head, unsmiling. "And then what? Go back to searching? Sooner or later, I'll find my way back to that bloody island and we'll be back where we started. Thank you, but no. I'll manage."

"Of course." Jack let go of the bottle of pills, and nodded to her. "I am sorry, Ms. Bevan."

She turned back to her tidying.

Jack wrapped a hand around Ianto's elbow and guided him out into the dark, drizzly Cardiff night.

*

She looked almost exactly as Jack had pictured her -- long dark hair streaked with silver, pulled back into a tidy braid. High cheekbones, the nose rounded at the tip, almond-shaped eyes with a bit of a tilt to them. She didn't stir as he entered the room, didn't acknowledge his presence at all. She just sat there, looking out the window, her hands folded in her lap. Jack wondered if she'd sat there of her own volition, or if she'd been posed like a doll.

"Mrs. Jones," he said, quietly, and then cleared his throat, feeling strangely awkward. She didn't move; she didn't even really seem to blink. "My name is Jack Harkness. I'm Ianto's..." But he couldn't find the words, not really. "Anyway. Mind if I sit down?"

There was a chair just across from hers; he lowered himself into it, looked around the room. There were flowers in a vase on her bedside table, a stack of books on the desk. And the shawl draped around her shoulders was one that Jack had watched Ianto knit, struggling over the lacy stitchwork in his free hours. Jack had to take a deep breath, remembering it. "You know, he'd kill me if he knew I'd come here. Not that he's ashamed of you; he's just... you know how he is. Private.

"But I wanted to come and meet you, sort of... introduce myself, I guess. I just... I know how important you are to him."

He only realized that he'd been hoping for a response when it failed to come.

"I don't know how he does this," Jack said, more to himself than to her. "I really don't. But that's Ianto, isn't it? He doesn't give up on anyone he loves. No matter what happens, no matter what they do. I wish I had half his faith."

Mrs. Jones continued to stare out the window. Jack wondered if she could hear him, if she cared, if she was so lost in her own mind that nothing could register anymore. She could be completely aware and cognizant, desperate to reach out but unable to do so. Or she might not even know there was another person in the room. He wasn't sure which thought was more painful, and realized then that he couldn't last another moment in that room, confronted with her silence.

He pushed his chair back, stood up quickly. "Anyway, I just hope you know... I hope you're proud of him. He's a good man, one of the best I've ever met. And I've been around a long time. Longer than you'd think."

Jack found himself waiting again, for a smile, some trick of the light that would make it look as though she'd heard him. But he'd been around for too long to really believe it would happen. "I suppose it isn't your fault," he said, with a sigh. "You'd come back for him if you could." He rested his hand on her shoulder, just for a moment. Then he pulled away.

Maybe she said something to the empty room, when the door was closed and no one could hear her. Maybe she smiled, or maybe she cried. But Jack knew better than to really believe any of that. He couldn't change the way things were. He couldn't make it better again.

*

That night, Ianto curled into Jack's warmth like a child seeking comfort, no words and no tears, just one deep shuddering breath after another. Jack stroked his hair and clung to him and waited. After a time, Ianto's breathing evened out, as though he'd finally fallen asleep.

"When I was a child, we lived under the threat of invasion," Jack said, his voice soft. "One day, it happened. They came. My father told me to take my little brother's hand and run to safety. But I let go, somehow. I don't know how it happened. All I remember is realizing he was gone. I looked everywhere, but I couldn't find him.

"I went home, eventually, and my father was dead. My mother was so relieved to see me. Then she asked me where Grey was. I told her what had happened..." For a moment, he couldn't force the words out. Ianto pressed closer to him, and Jack closed his eyes. "It was never the same, after that."

"I'm sorry," Ianto murmured, his lips grazing Jack's shoulder.

Jack kissed Ianto's forehead. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, me too."

One-shot: Once

2008-04-04T03:03:23Z

Title: Once
Author: lookninjas
Characters: Jack, Ianto, Gwen, Rhys
Rating: G
Spoilers: "Something Borrowed"
Warnings: Fluff. Lots and lots of fluff.

Summary: Jack is on the dance floor with Ianto in his arms, but he can't relax.

Everything's over; the monster is dead, the happy couple have been married, and Jack is on the dance floor with Ianto in his arms. He should be completely relaxed. But he's not.

Rhys almost died today, and if he had, if they'd lost him... Gwen would never recover from it. None of them would. She's too important to the team, and Rhys is too important to her, and both of them could have died today, and Jack can't relax. He needs to keep checking up on them. He needs to know they're all right.

So he looks back over his shoulder just one more time, just to see them smiling at each other and safe, and Ianto laughs softly. "They're all right now, Jack," he murmurs. "Everyone's fine, wedding went off without a hitch... no reason to keep fussing."

"I'm not fussing," Jack protests, but there's no real strength behind it.

"You are." Ianto's voice is warm, affectionate, teasing. Jack finds himself leaning in just a bit more, holding on a bit tighter. "And there's no need. Everyone's all right now."

Jack breathes in, smelling Ianto's shampoo, his soap, his aftershave. Ianto always smells so good; Jack wonders how he manages it. "You know what scared me the most?" he asks, trying to lighten the mood. "When Owen brought out that little toy of his. I still don't trust that thing."

He can feel Ianto's smile against his ear. "It worked, though."

"It worked for Rhys," Jack points out. "Actually, maybe I should fire Owen and bring Rhys in instead."

"Don't you even think it." And still, Ianto sounds more amused than annoyed. "Gwen would murder you if you put Rhys in any more danger. And you're not firing Owen. Not again."

Jack sighs in mock exasperation. "There you go, taking his side. I'm really starting to think you like him more than me."

"Jealous, Captain?"

"Not in the slightest." He can feel Ianto's shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter when he adds, "Just maybe you should be dancing with him instead of me."

"Maybe I will, then," Ianto says, and starts to pull away.

Chuckling, Jack pulls him back in. "Oh no. I've got you now, and I'm keeping you."

Ianto's steps falter slightly. "Is that so?" he asks, and Jack can tell that he's trying to sound nonchalant. But he's not quite getting there.

"Yep." Jack closes his eyes, rests his cheek against Ianto's hair, and waits. Gradually, Ianto relaxes, his body warm against Jack's, his breathing only a little unsteady.

It occurs to Jack, then, that they are locked in each other's arms in front of all these people, and that this was Ianto's idea. Ianto, who has thus far refused to admit that they are doing anything more than "dabbling," who pulls away whenever another person is near. But right now, Ianto has an arm around Jack's waist, and their hands are linked; he's breathing into Jack's skin and swaying with Jack's movements, and Jack resolves not to let go of this moment for anything.

Gwen and Rhys are safe for now, and Ianto is in his arms on the dance floor, and he needs to enjoy this, because it's not going to last. Some things only happen once.

"Jack," Ianto says, after a little while. Jack doesn't reply, and Ianto repeats himself, louder. "Jack. The song's ended."

But he's not trying to pull away.

"There'll be another," Jack tells him. And that must be enough to satisfy Ianto, because he stays in Jack's arms, and they sway together in the silence.

One-Shot: The Persistence of Memory

2008-03-10T11:29:13Z

Title: The Persistence of Memory
Author: lookninjas
Characters: Team
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Up to 2x05, "Adam"

Summary: Suzie always used to say that RetCon wasn't 100%

Beta'd by ffarff and seize

"Hey!"

Obedient as always, Ianto turns back, peers through Jack's doorway; the man is holding an evidence bag in his hands, studying the label. "Who's Adam?"

Ianto shrugs. "Don't know." But the name tugs at him as he leaves Jack's office, diary safely in hand. Adam. It hovers at the edge of his memory, just out of reach. He knows that name. But it's nothing, of course it's nothing. Someone he knew at Uni, maybe. Someone from London. The world is full of Adams; he's bound to have met a few in his time.

But that's not right, he knows it's not right, he knows it's something more, something recent...

"Any luck with that CCTV, Tosh?"

He jumps at the sound of Gwen's voice as she brushes by him, and she stops, lays a hand on his arm. "All right, then, Ianto?" she asks, her eyes suddenly worried.

He smiles quickly, easily, covering the lapse. "Fine," he says. "Excuse me." He slips past her, well aware that she's watching him go, looking for cracks in the facade. He keeps his back straight, his stride firm. With a sigh, she turns back to Tosh.

"That's a lovely top. Is it new?"

Another little tug, an echo, really. Tosh in her low-cut blouse, her short skirt, her high heels. Love suits you, Gwen said. Tosh was in love, in love with...

Who's Adam?

He remembers Tosh coming in in the morning, someone with her, just a dark shadow at her heels, and his heart starts pounding in his chest...

"Oi! Mind where you're going!"

Ianto stops short, barely catching himself before he falls over backwards. Owen's glaring at him, spray bottle in hand, fussing over his plants again. He squints up at Ianto's face, and Ianto wonders, briefly, where his glasses are. Has he seen Owen in glasses? "Sorry," Ianto mutters, and steps to the side, expecting Owen to let him go. Instead, Owen steps in front of him.

"You all right? Only you look like absolute shit." Owen sets his spray bottle down and pulls a penlight out of his pocket. Ianto obediently crouches down, lets Owen shine the light in his eyes.

"Feel like someone's been rummaging through my brain with a blunt tool," Ianto says.

"Yeah, well. Happened to all of us, didn't it?" Owen holds a finger up, moves it back and forth. Ianto follows it with his eyes. He's got no idea what Owen thinks any of this is going to prove, apart from that Ianto's eyes work, but he knows better than to argue. "Right. What's five times five?"

"Twenty-five."

"Thirteenth letter of the alphabet?"

"... M."

"Code to the safe in Jack's office?"

"Nice try, Owen."

"Worth a shot, though." Owen's lips quirk up in a smirk, and Ianto feels a sudden, sharp stab of relief. He's missed this. He just doesn't know why.

Who's Adam?

Owen tucks the penlight back in his pocket. "Well, whatever wiped our memories, it doesn't seem to have hurt you much. You're a bit jumpy, which is understandable, but it'll fade."

"Thanks," Ianto says, for lack of anything better to say, and brushes past.

"Oh, and if you feel any weird urges to go on a murderous rampage, let us know, yeah?"

A cold shudder sweeps through Ianto; his hands clench. He sees rain on black leather, rough bricks, graffiti carved into a wooden door. His stomach lurches.

"Don't want another situation like Suzie's Pilgrim friends... Ianto?" Owen steps up behind him. "You sure you're all right?"

His heart is pounding so loudly that it's a miracle Owen can't hear it. His hands are sweating. "Perfectly fine," he says, his voice still somehow steady, and hurries on his way.

Who's Adam?

A red-haired man dragging Ianto down a dark alley, arm wrapped around his throat, a threat disguised as good-hearted roughhousing. And Ianto was so scared, so fucking scared, because he didn't, he hadn't, he couldn't, but he remembered...

He sinks onto the couch with his diary in his hands, tips his head back against the tiles, closes his eyes, and realizes all of a sudden that he's done this before. He's sat here like this, with his diary in his hands, trying to make sense of fractured memories, bits that don't fit together.

Who's Adam?

It all comes back to that, the name, the vague figure lurking just at the periphery of his mind. He'd sat here, looking through his diary, looking for proof, looking for --

"What's that, then?" Gwen asks, and Ianto damn near leaps out of his skin at the sound of her voice. The diary falls out of his hands and tumbles to the floor; his heart pounds erratically in his chest. He'd been so lost in his thoughts he hadn't noticed her settling down next to him. "Ianto?" Gwen's voice is worried, as well it might be -- Ianto is aware that he's gone white as a ghost, aware that he's shaking. "Are you all right? I'm sorry I startled you."

He manages a laugh, although he's still coursing with adrenaline. "Sorry. I'm just... I suppose I'm just a bit jumpy, having my memories stolen and all of that." It's a bold-faced lie; it's not the things he's forgotten that bother him. It's the things he still remembers.

Adam.

Gwen leans down, picks the diary up off the floor; he resists the urge to snatch it away. Too familiar, it's all too familiar, but this is Gwen. He trusts her. He knows her. She smiles at him. "Little black book?" she asks, and hands it back.

"My diary," he says, his voice very rough. Too familiar, it's all too familiar. "Just... for things I feel like I need to remember. Interesting artifacts, important cases, things like that."

She looks at the diary, still closed in his hands. She looks back up at him. "So this missing time... maybe you wrote about it, then? I mean, there's a possibility that there's something in there, isn't there?"

Ianto takes a deep breath, then another. "I suppose so," he says. He's aware that Jack has come out of his office, and is studying them intently. He's aware that Tosh's fingers have stilled on the keyboard; he's aware that Owen is eyeing them through the leaves of one of his plants. And he's aware that somewhere in the shadows, someone else is watching, waiting. His hands shake.

"Well." Gwen nudges him with her shoulder. "Go on, then."

His throat is dry, his palms sweating. He can hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears, the rush and push of blood. He shouldn't be doing this. He knows he shouldn't be doing this. But he has to know, he has to.

He opens the book, flips through to where the last few entries ought to be.

They aren't there.

They've been cut out with a knife, just the jagged stubs of the pages left behind. One sentence is scrawled on the facing page, big and bold and black: Don't try to remember.

It's in his own handwriting.

Who's Adam?

He'd tried to forget. He hadn't tried hard enough.

"We did this," he says, quietly. "We did it to ourselves. Erased our own memories."

"But why?" Gwen asks.

Because they had to. Because it was the only way to stop him. But Ianto can't tell her that; it's bad enough that he knows. "I suppose if we knew why, we'd start to remember more. Probably best that it remains a mystery."

Gwen settles back into the sofa with a frown, obviously not satisfied. Owen finally stops drowning his alien ficus and moves on to another plant. Tosh closes the CCTV footage with a click of her mouse and goes back to her translations.

Jack stands there for a few moments longer, his eyes practically burning through Ianto, before disappearing back into his office. He doesn't come out again.

Ianto tries to force his mind to the present, tries not to think about it any more, but the memories keep leaking through. Everything is familiar now, the couch, Tosh's flowers, Suzie's old workstation near the stairs. Everything has an echo attached to it, a red-headed man in a brown leather jacket, coming nearer, nearer, nearer.

RetCon isn't 100%; that's what Suzie always said. It only takes one small thing to trigger a flood of memories. Ianto can't say anything to anyone; he can't risk anyone else remembering, too. So he waits, tidies, tries to force it back. But it's just him against the flood, and he's running out of time. The more he remembers, the closer he gets.

Adam.

Tosh drifts away first, leaving the flowers behind on her workstation. Owen pretends that he's not watching her go, but it's obvious that he is. After a few minutes, he grabs his jacket and heads towards the lift, detouring past the workstation, the bouquet. He only pauses for a moment, then hurries on his way. Gwen shakes her head, laughs. "Those two," she says. "Sometimes I don't think they'll ever figure it out."

And it's funny, really, how even this twists at Ianto's insides, stirring up old ghosts. He tries to keep it from showing on his face, but Gwen is watching too closely for that -- she sighs and shakes her head. "You ought to take your own advice, you know," she says. "Stop trying to remember."

"I'm not," he says. "I just..."

Gwen takes him by the arms, pulls him down for a quick kiss on the cheek. "You're just not that good at forgetting things," she finishes. She glances over at Jack's office; Ianto doesn't have to look to know that Jack's standing in the doorway, watching over them again. Gwen smiles up at him. "Go on, then," she says, jerking her head in Jack's direction. "I'm heading home to Rhys. Feels like I haven't seen him for days."

This time, Ianto manages to keep the stab of recognition from appearing on his face. He nods at Gwen, gives her hands a squeeze and lets them go, watches as she gathers her things and leaves. Only then does he look over at Jack, still leaning in the doorway of his office, watching him.

There's a shadow, the dark outline of a man, standing behind him.

Ianto takes a deep breath, then another, and makes his way to Jack.

The pill is innocuous-looking, tiny and white in Jack's large hand. Jack closes his fingers over it before Ianto even attempts to reach out. "Are you sure this is what you want?" he asks, his voice soft. "This isn't like you, Ianto."

Behind him, the man takes a step forward. Red hair, the suggestion of a smile. Ianto's heart leaps into his throat.

"I can't explain it." Ianto keeps his eyes locked on Jack's, forces himself to ignore the shadow (Adam) coming closer and closer. He has to make Jack believe him. "Jack, please, you have to trust me! I can't remember this; I'll put the team in danger. You have to let me forget."

Jack hesitates a moment longer. Adam is just behind them now, reaching out, and Ianto starts to shake. If he touches Jack...

Then Jack's fingers uncurl, and Ianto snatches the pill from his hand, swallows it down dry, backs away quickly as Jack reaches out to steady him.

"Don't!" Adam shouts, and he's real enough that Jack hears it, whirls around in shock, gun drawn.

"Who are you?" Jack asks, his voice casual, but his stance wary. Adam reaches out, but Jack doesn't let himself be touched, keeps the gun steady. "I asked you who you were."

"Ianto," Adam says. "I never meant to hurt you. I just wanted you to trust me. Please..."

But Ianto is already dizzy, already drowsy. "Too late," he says, smiling. "Goodbye, Adam." He stumbles back one more step, falls over sideways, and crumples, cracking his head on the floor. His eyes stay open just long enough to see Adam flicker and vanish, and he's still smiling when everything goes black. Two doses of RetCon and a concussion, ought to be enough. When he wakes up, the last two days will be gone for good.

Adam's not coming back again.

Note: I realize that there's a bit of a plot hole at the end of this, similar to the plot hole left at the end of the episode. I have my own fan-wanky theories as to how Adam's powers work, why Jack's memories aren't as easily triggered as Ianto's, etc, etc, but there really isn't a place for them in the fic. So we'll just call it a (an?) homage for now, and leave it at that.

One-shot: Brothers in Arms

2008-03-09T12:01:45Z

Title: Brothers in Arms
Author: lookninjas
Characters: Ianto, Owen
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Up to 2x07, "Dead Man Walking"

Summary: The boys talk about zombies and debate the merits of fresh vs. frozen brains.

seize fixed the bad stuff, 'cause she's good like that.

Like most other only children, Owen Harper had always wanted a sibling. A little brother, actually -- someone who would look up to him (literally as well as figuratively), someone he could teach about the good things in life: booze, sex, football, the Clash. Someone he could look after, someone who would always think he was amazing.

The closest he'd ever come to that ideal was... well, it was Ianto. Proof that the universe had a twisted sense of humor.

Still, sometimes Owen was grateful even for Ianto. Like right now, for instance. Tosh was still teary-eyed, Gwen's smile was brittle and pasted on, and Jack was trying to act impassive and calm, and not doing very well with it. Every time Martha looked at him, her hands twitched like she wanted a scanner or a scalpel, wanted to take him apart and figure him out. They were all acting like a bunch of girls, and it was bloody irritating. Yes, he had died. He was dead. He was walking around with no heartbeat, no respirations, no digestive activity. Completely and totally dead. Still, the fussing had gotten ridiculous

So when Owen saw Ianto coming towards him, a cup of coffee in each hand, he budged over on the sofa, made a bit of room. He didn't even bother pointing out that he couldn't very well drink coffee anymore; he was sick of explaining himself anyway. He just held the mug in his hands and let Ianto sit down, a careful distance away. Ianto wasn't much, but at least he could be relied upon to be sensible.

"So," Ianto said, after a little bit. "You're a zombie."

Owen laughed hard, more out of surprise and relief than anything else. Only Ianto. "Yeah," he said, glancing up at Ianto's impassive face, still chuckling. "Yeah, I guess I am."

"And we both know who's going to have to keep you in brains," Ianto said. His eyes met Owen's, and they snickered. "We've got all those cadavers, though... think you can cope with frozen? Or does it need to be fresh?"

"Hmmm." Owen pretended to think seriously about it. "'Course, it's always fresh in the movies, but then movies aren't exactly scientifically accurate. I suppose the best way is to try a few different sorts, isn't it? Experiment."

"They've got sheep brains at the butcher's," Ianto mused. "I could just pick some up when I get Myfanwy's dinner, see if you like them."

And he would, too. That was the thing. If Owen developed the same uncontrollable hunger for brains that he'd once had for ketchup crisps and Hob Nobs, Ianto would go out and find them, no matter what he had to do. He'd bring them back with a small amount of quiet grumbling, just enough to reassure Owen that he was doing this because he was supposed to, not because he really cared. But he did care. He had always cared. After all, he never told them to bugger off and get their own junk food, did he? He'd always done it for them. And he always would.

Owen had no idea why that hurt so much to think about; it just did.

"I'll let you know if I feel a bit peckish," he muttered, settling back into the couch and closing his eyes. He could tell that Ianto was watching him, quiet and serious as always.

"Please do," Ianto said, after a moment.

It was funny, really, sitting there with his eyes closed. The Dark was still right there, like he was back to being dead. Like he'd never open his eyes again. He'd never been scared of the dark as a kid, but now... "You didn't say goodbye," he said. "When Jack brought me back, you didn't say goodbye."

"Didn't think you'd appreciate it, really. It's not... we're not..." That was all Ianto could manage, but it was fair enough. He and Ianto weren't talkers exactly. They relied on significant looks, raised eyebrows, stupid jokes, rude gestures. "Anyway, that was just an excuse, wasn't it? Jack trying to keep us from getting our hopes up, in case it didn't work."

Owen's eyes flew open, and he stared at Ianto. He sounded so matter-of fact. So sure. "You really think he meant for this to happen?" he asked.

Ianto shrugged, totally calm, hands folded in his lap. Funny how he hadn't touched his coffee, just like Owen hadn't touched his. "Of course he did. It makes perfect sense, from his point of view. When Gwen used the glove to bring Suzie back... Sure, it almost killed her, but Jack can't die. Or he can't stay dead, anyway. So he brings you back to life, and yes, then he dies, but he gets up a minute or so later and that's it. You're alive, he's alive, no harm done, really. Everything works out."

"You have spent far too much time with him, Ianto," Owen said, and Ianto laughed quietly. "Morbid fuckers, the pair of you. Christ, you'd have done the same thing, wouldn't you?"

"Wouldn't you?" Ianto looked at him hard, then, and after a few seconds, Owen had to stare down at his coffee. "After everything that's happened, would you really let any of us be killed? Or would you do something to try and bring them back? Even if it was stupid, even if it backfired spectacularly..." Owen closed his eyes, then, braved the Dark; it was easier than looking at Ianto. After a few minutes, Ianto sighed. "You would have," he said, almost to himself. "'Course you would have."

Owen didn't say anything. He let his hand rest on the couch cushions, near enough to Ianto's that a small gesture from either of them would bring them into contact. Neither of them moved.

Finally, Ianto pushed himself off the couch. "Right. Better start calling around for those brains, then. I imagine you'll need a good supply."

"Ianto," Owen called out, but when Ianto turned back, Owen realized he had no idea what to say. He wanted to point out that Ianto was a prat and a snob, that he looked ridiculous coming in to work with a suit on every day, like James Bond or something. He wanted to say that there was nothing wrong with instant coffee or with cheap beer, that Ianto's taste in music was terrible and that his taste in film was worse. Rugby was for tossers, Welsh was a stupid language, and really, only thirteen year-old girls kept diaries. Oh, and everyone knew Ianto and Jack were shagging, so he could stop being so bloody coy about it. Owen wanted to say a million things, things he'd never said, things that he'd said a hundred times, but he couldn't say any of them. He knew how they would sound.

Ianto just smiled, but Owen wasn't blind or an idiot -- he could see the tears swimming in Ianto's eyes perfectly fine. "I know," he said. "Me too." Then he turned away again. "Glad to have you back, Owen," he said, over his shoulder.

And despite everything, Owen was almost glad to be back, just for a moment.

One-shot: Restraint

2008-02-18T01:42:48Z

Title: Restraint
Author: lookninjas
Characters: Ianto, Tosh
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Up to 2x04, "Meat"

Summary: Tosh and Ianto practice methods of escape.

Beta'd by the ever-lovely, ever-welcome seize.

Tosh hisses when the rope bites into one of the raw red places still marking her arms, and Ianto's hands still at once. "Too tight?" he asks, his voice worried, his fingers grazing her elbow.

It kills her sometimes, this protectiveness from someone so much younger, so much less experienced. There are times when she wants nothing more than to give him a good shaking, to shout out that she's not a child, that she's not weak, that just because she's smaller than he is... But when she looks at him, she sees the bruises that darken and distort his features, and anger dissolves, replaced by guilt. She did that to him. Because she couldn't get them free of the cannibals, because she couldn't escape the way she ought to have. And Ianto, who should never have been in that position in the first place, risked his life to keep her safe.

It's not going to happen again. By the time she's done, she'll be able to escape from anything.

Tosh manages a smile. Her hair gets in her eyes, and she can't very well brush it away, so she purses her lips, forces a puff of air out, blows it back. "You know," she points out, "most people who tie me up aren't going to ask me if it's too tight."

Ianto ducks his head, abashed. "Fair enough," he says.

That same lock of hair falls in her eyes. Ianto brushes it back, smiles tentatively at her, then goes back to work. The rope bites in again, but Tosh doesn't make a sound.

*

Ianto is good at tying knots; Tosh is good at untying them. Down in the semi-darkness of the Hub's lower levels, with rope and a stopwatch, they practice methods of escape.

They don't talk about what happened in the Beacons. They don't need to. Every time Tosh is struggling, every time it seems like Ianto has managed some sort of Gordian knot that will keep her bound forever, she remembers running through the woods, branches whipping at her, hands knotted firmly behind her back, and thinks, Not again. Never again. And somehow, she gets free.

It's the same for Ianto. He's not as agile as she is, not as flexible, and has a hard time shaking off even Tosh's feeble attempts at restraint. But right when she thinks they should take a break, that she should give him a few minutes before they try again, his eyes open, and he looks at her. She doesn't need to be a mind-reader to know what he's thinking at that moment -- the cannibal's hands on her, meat has to be tenderized. His eyes close, the look of concentration on his face so similar to a look of pain, and he redoubles his efforts. Eventually, the rope slips from his arms, and he looks up at her, smiling triumphantly as she clicks the stopwatch.

He's still not very good at this, and she's not nearly as good as she wants to be, but they're getting better every time, and that has to count for something.

*

Ianto's hands are gentle on her arms, surprisingly so after everything that's happened. She wouldn't blame him for never wanting to speak to her again, after the pendant, after she betrayed them. But he's still so careful, so gentle.

"Ianto," she says, her trembling voice breaking the silence between them. He's behind her, and very close; when she turns her head to look at him, their noses bump, and they both pull back. It was never awkward like this before; Tosh never thought of it as anything... But Mary changed all that, loosened the knots, and Tosh can't help but see things differently now. Down here in the semi-darkness, tying each other up; it's...

She flushes, laughs nervously, ducks her head. She can still feel Ianto's eyes on her. "Right," he says, his voice so close to her ear, and calmly starts untying her.

"Ianto," she says again, helpless and confused and overwhelmed. She's not sure what it is that they're doing, down here with the rope and the stopwatch, but she's not sure she wants to stop, either. Whatever it is, it's a connection, and she couldn't bear to lose it, not now. She needs this.

Ianto doesn't say anything, busy unwinding the rope and untying the knots. The air of the Hub is cold on her arms, and it feels... wrong somehow. She's not sure she wants to be set free just yet. But when she opens her eyes, Ianto is kneeling in front of her, his eyes kind and calm and reassuring.

"There," he says, setting the rope to one side. "Didn't feel like talking to you when you were all tied up."

It's so like him, to be so careful, and she swallows hard against the lump in her throat. "Ianto," she says again, and buries her head in her hands; right now she can't look at him for anything.

Sighing, he takes her by the wrists, places one hand under her chin and lifts her face up so she can't look away from him. She keeps her eyes tight shut. "Tosh," he says, very seriously. "Talk to me."

But she can't speak; Mary is dead and she's betrayed all of them and Ianto shouldn't forgive her this, and it's all too much; she can't bear any of it. She lets out a little strangled sound, and Ianto pulls her in, wraps her up in his arms and pulls her head down to his shoulder, and her restraints all fall away. She sobs and clutches him, and he holds her tightly, strokes her hair. "It's all right, Tosh," he says. "It's all right now."

It isn't, really. But he's here, and whatever is going on between them, at least it's something. She clings to it, to him, desperate to keep from drowning.

*

"Do you love him?" she asks, and Ianto is silent for a while, gives the ropes tying her wrists together a final adjustment, then starts the stopwatch and moves to sit in front of her, watching.

"I don't know," he says, finally, frowning. Tosh tests the ropes; he hasn't given her much room to play with this time around. "I don't think so. I think I could eventually, maybe. When he comes back." He sighs heavily. "If he comes back."

"He'll come back," Tosh says, flexing her wrists. All she has to do is loosen a coil, just one, just enough to slip her hands through, and the rest is easy.

"Maybe." He sighs again, stares down at his hands, and for just a moment, he looks so young. Then his eyes meet hers, and the moment passes. "How about you? I know you... and Owen..."

She squeezes her eyes shut for a moment, concentrating, working her thumbs up above the bottom bit of rope. Her eyes are still shut when she finally speaks. "Some days," she says, quietly. "Some days I do. Other times... It's stupid, really. You'd think I'd have learned by now."

Ianto chuckles; it's got a wistful sound to it. "I know the feeling." After a few moments (and she's nearly there, now, just a bit further and she'll have it), he adds, softly, "Sometimes I think... if you and I were to make a go of it... D'you think we'd be happy?"

Tosh curls her hands, pulls her fingers up and free of the first loop of rope. A bit of shifting and it all drops off. She reaches out, catches Ianto's hands in hers; the stopwatch ticks on, unheeded. "I think we'd be content," she says, as gently as she can. "But it's not the same."

"And it's not enough." He doesn't sound hurt, really, more like resigned. Like he was expecting this, almost.

She squeezes his hands. "I'm sorry."

He squeezes back, manages a smile. "Don't be."

*

After all that time, all that practice, it's Ianto who gets tied up again. Ianto, who is so young, so unsure of himself, and Tosh would give anything for it to be her instead. It's all so familiar; the warehouse stinks of blood and terror and the kind of cruelty only humans can inflict; there is a gun to Ianto's head and his hands are tied behind his back. But somehow, Tosh manages to hold not only herself back, but Jack as well. "He can do this," she hisses, her hands tugging Jack back into the shadows. "We have to let him try."

But then Gwen is coming out into the light, dropping her gun, and Tosh and Jack are seen, and although Ianto tries, although he does his best, he isn't fast enough. The gun goes off. Rhys crumples. The creature breaks free.

They save Rhys, in the end, although they can't save the alien, but that's no consolation. Tosh knows what Ianto must be thinking now, how he must feel. What it's like to fail when you're needed most. So she isn't surprised when he comes to her, rope in one hand, stopwatch in the other. "I should have been faster," he says, his voice choked and gravelly. "I should have been..."

When she starts to tie him up, the rope bites into the red weals still showing on his arms. He hisses in pain, and she almost hesitates, almost asks if it's too tight. But then she takes a deep breath, pulls the rope tighter, and keeps going.

Drabble: Plums

2008-02-17T03:01:26Z

Title: Plums
Author: lookninjas
Characters: Jack/Ianto
Rating: PG-13.
Warning/Spoilers: None.

Summary: Ianto eats a plum. Jack enjoys the view.

The plum is small and firm in Ianto's long-fingered hands, more scarlet than purple, a little unripe, a little sour. Ianto doesn't like anything if it's too sweet. He prefers his chocolate dark, his coffee unsugared, his plums a little unripe.

Teeth bared, he bites in, exposing flesh that blushes pink, glistens with juice. It spills out onto Ianto's fingers, leaves them sticky. Jack smiles, and watches. When the fruit is gone, he will take Ianto by the wrist and clean those fingers, with teeth as well as tongue. He knows that Ianto doesn't like anything if it's too sweet.

One-shot: The Art of Losing

2008-02-13T02:03:33Z

Title: The Art of Losing
Author: lookninjas
Characters: Jack/Ianto
Rating: PG at the absolute worst
Spoilers: "To the Last Man"

Summary: Gwen can't quite understand just why this photo has such a hold on Ianto, but Jack knows.

The title was taken from Elizabeth Bishop's One Art.

He finds Ianto in the Archives after the others have gone. A folder lies open in his hands, the picture faded underneath the lights. Torchwood Three, 1918. Long gone now.

Gwen can't quite understand just why this picture has such a hold on Ianto, but Jack knows. He's spent a lot of time down here, with these files, these pictures. So many faces, so many names. All of them gone.

He wraps one arm around Ianto's shoulders, leans in so that their cheeks brush. One finger traces the unsmiling face, the careful posture of Harriet Derbyshire. "Twenty-four years old," he says, softly.

Ianto sighs, relaxing back into Jack's hold just a little bit. "All things being considered, I suppose we're doing quite well," he murmurs. "I've made it to twenty-six, and I'm the youngest of all of us. Outlived her by two years so far."

Jack's other arm goes around Ianto's waist, pulling him closer still, his chin resting on Ianto's shoulder. "You've outlived a lot of people," he says, softly.

"Not as many as you have." Ianto does his best to sound calm, but he takes a deep, shuddering breath, then another.

"Pretty damned close." Jack keeps his voice quiet, keeps his anger locked away. It doesn't do any good to rage at the universe. "And you're a lot younger than I am."

Ianto swallows hard, and his head drops forward. "Every time they go out, I think..." His voice is so quiet, barely a whisper. If they weren't so close, Jack wouldn't be able to hear him at all. "We've already lost Suzie, and..."

"I know." Jack kisses his cheekbone, nuzzles his hair. "If it helps at all, you're not losing me any time soon. I'm not going anywhere."

"I just..." Ianto sags back even further into Jack's grip, lets himself be held and comforted. "I just wish I could say the same."

Jack's arms tighten around Ianto. He kisses Ianto's hair and squeezes his eyes tight shut and doesn't say anything, because he can't trust himself to speak right now.

"How do you do it?" Ianto asks. His gaze is still locked on the photograph, as if he's asking them -- Douglas, Harold, Lydia, the ones who stayed behind. "How do you keep going?"

"I don't know," Jack admits. "You just do. Because you have to. You can't stop."

Ianto lets out a quiet sigh, and closes the folder, slipping easily out of Jack's arms to put the folder back in its place. Then his arms are around Jack's neck, his hands in Jack's hair, and they kiss, more gently than they have in a long time. No desperate clutching, no angry little nips, just lips meeting, breath being shared. Comfort. When they part, Ianto rests his forehead against Jack's. "I'm tired," he says, finally. "Let's go to bed."

One-shot: Five Times Owen Harper Said "Let's All Have Sex"

2008-02-07T21:14:47Z

Title: Five Times Owen Harper Said "Let's All Have Sex"
Author: lookninjas
Characters: Ianto/Owen/Tosh/Gwen
Rating: NC-17, for vaguely described violence, death, and... well, sex.
Spoilers: "Sleeper" and Owen's report on the Himalayas (taken from the BBC website).

Summary: It's become something of a running joke.

The first time Owen says it, they're both drunk.

Jack has been gone a week, and Ianto is trying desperately to keep the team from crumbling. He's finally coaxed Gwen into going home to Rhys, dragged Tosh away from her computer and onto the sofa for a nap, but Owen is stubbornly refusing any sort of care or comfort. So Ianto pulls a bottle of whisky from Jack's private stash, and he and Owen sit on the floor by Jack's desk, passing the bottle back and forth, not really speaking.

Ianto isn't exactly sure what this is going to help, but he has to do something, and this is the only thing he can think of.

"Do you know what we should do, Ianto?" Owen says, and he's far past drunk now, so far gone that Ianto can't think of a word to describe it. "We should all have sex. You, me, Tosh, Gwen... Let's all have sex. Sometime."

It's such a non sequitur that Ianto is stunned into silence. Finally, he sighs and says, "Owen, you're drunk."

"That doesn't make it a bad idea, though," Owen says.

Ianto doesn't say anything more, and after a while, Owen passes out on his shoulder. The bottle is empty, and Ianto carefully sets it aside. He tries to get comfortable, but his head is awkwardly bent, the wood of the desk is hard behind his back, and Owen's elbow is digging into his ribcage. Then Owen starts to snore. Ianto sighs and resigns himself to another sleepless night.

*

The second time Owen says it, Ianto is still shaking, because they should be dead now. They should all be dead, but they're not, and he knows he should be glad, and maybe he is, but he can't stop shaking.

Owen drops his weapon and stares around at the carnage, blood and flesh and ichor and all sorts of things everywhere. "I don't fucking believe it," he says. "We're not dead."

"No," Ianto agrees. It seems like the sensible thing to do. "We're not dead."

"Let's all have sex," Owen says, in a bemused sort of way, like he doesn't mean it, but doesn't know what else to say.

It sets Gwen off, though, and she flies at him, her fingers curled like claws. He catches her wrists, holds her a safe distance away as she swears at him. "You bastard! After all that, and all you can say is--" She breaks off with a sob.

For a moment, they all stand there, Gwen and Owen locked together, Ianto and Tosh hovering uncertainly nearby. Then Gwen crumbles, but Owen catches her, wrapping his arms around her and letting her sob into his shoulder. "If you hadn't..." Her words are shaky, broken by her choked breaths, muffled by Owen's shoulder. "And Tosh and Ianto, they could've been... I can't do this, Owen. I just can't."

"It's all right," Owen says, stroking her hair. "You did fine, Gwen. You did just fine."

Ianto feels Tosh's hand slip into his. He stares down at her, and the relief finally starts to hit him. They're not dead. They're still alive. They killed the monster and they saved the planet and they did it without Jack.

Maybe next time, things will be worse for them, but right now, they're still alive, and that's what counts, in the end.

*

The third time Owen says it, he's already got his hand up Tosh's skirt, and by the little, ragged whimpers coming from her throat, he's quite good at that. "Let's all have sex," he grunts, as her leg wraps around his waist and she licks his neck and his fingers work busily away.

Ordinarily, Ianto would say something now, something about pheromones or biological agents and why they really, really shouldn't be doing this. At the very least, he'd like to point out that Actually, Owen, we are all having sex. But his mouth is full of Gwen's tongue, and it's sloppy and it lacks finesse and it's probably the greatest thing he's ever felt in his life, and then she's backing him up against the wall with a low growl like a jungle cat, and he forgets all about everything and starts ripping off buttons in his haste to get into her shirt.

Then they're on the floor, all of them in a pile, and it's hands and lips and thighs and breasts and buttocks, dark flowing hair, the sharpness of Owen's hipbones and the feel of Tosh wrapping herself around him, Gwen's head thrown back and the line of her throat exposed. It's damp heat and friction and the most pornographic noises Ianto has ever heard (or made) in his whole life. It's probably the most ridiculous, idiotic, nonsensical thing that has ever happened to them, and it is, without a doubt, the best sexual experience he's ever had in his life.

And the others seem to agree, because when he suggests slipping a little RetCon into their coffee the next morning, they quickly decide that it isn't necessary. They're all blushing and covering themselves with whatever scraps of fabric they can find; they're all covered with bruises and bitemarks, but no one wants to forget what they've done. And though he'll never look at any of them the same way again (Tosh in particular was a surprise), Ianto is secretly relieved by that.

*

(The fourth time would have happened while they were snowbound halfway up K2, with their helicopter and half their supplies wiped out in an avalanche. They would have all been crowded into one tent, clinging to each other under two sleeping bags zipped together. Ianto would have had one hand pressed to Tosh's chest, feeling it rise and fall with each of her shallow, uneven breaths. His head would have throbbed; his thoughts would have been increasingly vague and scattered; his limbs would have felt heavy and unwieldy. He would have remembered that for every two climbers to summit K2, one dies. He would have found himself listing the names off in his head: Nick Estcourt, died in an avalanche. Art Gilkey, thrombophlebitis. Alison Hargreaves, caught in a storm on the descent. Jeff Lakes, exposure... He would have thought of all the great climbers who had died, and how his team were not great climbers, and how their odds of survival were decidedly poor under the circumstances.

Then Owen would have spoken up from the other side of the pile, in a voice that sounded like he was drowning in broken glass and his own blood. He would have coughed, and said, "As long as we're all cuddled up like this, let's all have sex." And then he would have coughed again, and Gwen would have been too silent, far too silent, and Tosh would have stirred under Ianto's hand, but not regained consciousness. Ianto would have had to squeeze his eyes tight shut, then, to hold back the tears.

It would have been the last thing Owen ever said.

But it never happened.)

*

By the fifth time, it's become something of a running joke.

Jack is back, although no one's really forgiven him for leaving yet, and they're all deferring to Gwen's judgement a great deal more than Jack seems to think they should. There are alien sleeper agents planted all over the world (or Cardiff, at least), and nuclear weapons, and although Jack and Gwen have headed off to avert the crisis (and they probably will), it could still be the end of the world.

Ianto, Tosh, and Owen are gathered around Tosh's computer, watching it all happen, when Ianto takes a deep breath, and says significantly "It's the end... of everything."

And Owen, with just as much seriousness, replies "Let's all have sex."

And somehow, Ianto knows that everything is going to be all right.

One-shot: Easier

2008-01-25T14:30:27Z

Title: Easier
Author: lookninjas
Characters: Ianto, Gwen
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers for: "Sleeper"

Summary: Sometimes you have to let them go.

Written for the Gwen/Ianto friendship challenge, because I love those crazy Welsh kids. seize approves this fic.

She'd no idea how long she'd been sat there, curled up next to Beth's sprawled body, watching blood pool on the metal grating, turning dark and sticky. She couldn't quite get used to that, how sticky blood was as it dried, the way it felt on her fingers. Maybe she'd never really get used to it. She wasn't sure if that was a good or a bad thing. She brushed her fingers over Beth's so-human hand, felt how cold the skin was. They always got cold so quickly.

"It would have worked," Gwen murmured, thinking of cold, of cryogenics. "We could have stopped it. Why wouldn't you let us try?"

Then Jack was there, his hand on her shoulder, and Ianto behind him, coming up to take her arm and bundle her away to the kitchenette. "I'll make you a nice cup of tea," he murmured in her ear as they left Jack behind with the body. The body, Gwen thought again, and shivered. She was cold, and Beth was cold, and Jack was like ice sometimes, but it was always warm in the kitchenette with Ianto.

He deposited her in one of the squeaky, vinyl-topped chairs, his hand lingering on her arm for a moment before he turned away to the stove, to set the kettle boiling. There was something comforting just in watching him move, his back to her as he measured leaves for the teapot, pulled down the blue mug with rainbows on, the one that was hers and hers alone, added milk and two lumps of sugar. He'd never asked how she took her tea, and she'd never told him; he just knew. It was just his way.

Neither of them said anything as he prepared the tea, put biscuits on a plate, poured himself a cup of strong black coffee. This, too, was part of the routine -- sometimes Gwen was desperate to talk, and every so often Ianto had a few words of his own to offer, but usually they just sat there, and it was enough. Anyway, Gwen was tired of talking, tired of begging and pleading when it all fell on deaf ears. All she wanted now was to just settle in and let herself be soothed by the steam rising from her mug and the warmth of Ianto's knee brushing hers under the table. All she wanted was silence.

Then he spoke.

"When Lisa..."

Gwen nearly dropped her mug in surprise, her eyes lifting to Ianto's face. It wasn't just that he was speaking; he was speaking about Lisa, and they'd never done that. In fact, she couldn't think of the last time he'd spoken of Lisa with anyone. But there he was, staring at the formica tabletop, his fingers tracing the faint gold patterns, his brow furrowed as he searched for words. "It was after Canary Wharf," he said, and his voice was so quiet that Gwen had to lean forward to hear. "I'd just managed to scavenge up some morphine for her -- she was in so much pain from the conversion, all the time, so I went back and... Anyway, I'd found some morphine, and I was giving her some, just enough to dull the pain. I had three little vials, you see, but I was trying to stretch them out, make them last. And she opened her eyes, and looked at me, and told me that I'd better just give her all the morphine at once, save us both a world of trouble."

He swallowed hard. Gwen couldn't move. She knew, somehow, that this was something Ianto had never told anyone, not even Jack. "I didn't, of course," Ianto continued. His eyes met hers; tears were threatening to spill, but his gaze never wavered. "I thought... all this alien tech, and we were constantly finding more. Maybe it would take a month or maybe even a year, but we'd find something, we'd fix it. I couldn't let her give up. I couldn't... I couldn't let her go."

Hearing Ianto echo her words to Beth, Gwen found herself shivering again. Her hands closed around her mug of tea, and she shut her eyes, willing the warmth into her bones. But Ianto's voice continued, inexorable. "Jack said, once, that Lisa died the moment she went into the conversion unit. It's not true. When she asked me to kill her, that was Lisa speaking. But I couldn't do it. And she couldn't... She couldn't force my hand, the way Beth did. She couldn't stand up; she couldn't even breathe without the machines, so how could she... And I kept her alive, and she lost herself, slowly, knowing that she was being turned into a weapon, a monster, with no way of stopping it." His voice cracked. "And I could have stopped it, but I didn't. I didn't. I..."

He fell silent.

Gwen looked up, finally, and saw him crying. She was crying too, although she wasn't really sure who she was crying for. Instinctively, she reached up, cupped his cheek in her hand. He leaned into her touch, let her brush a tear away with her thumb. Then he caught her hand in both his, squeezing gently. "Sometimes we have to let them go, Gwen. Not just for the sake of the world, but for them. To stop them suffering any more than they have to. Sometimes it's kindest that way."

Remember how guilty you felt, Beth had said. But the guilt Ianto felt now, had been feeling for God knows how long, was so much worse than anything Gwen could imagine. And there wasn't anything she could say that would comfort him. So she didn't even try; she just rested her free hand over his and let the warmth and silence take care of them both.

One-shot: I Can't Decide

2008-01-21T23:22:38Z

Title: I Can't Decide
Author: lookninjas
Characters: Ianto, SPOILER
Rating: R, for bad words and worse thoughts
Spoilers for: "Kiss Kiss Bang Bang"

Summary: It's all about claiming someone, making them yours.

Big ups to ffarff, my beloved enabler, and seize, beta extraordinaire.

They come from the same urge, in the end, she'd told you. The urge to fuck, the urge to kill... it's all about control. Possession. Ownership. It's all about claiming someone, making them yours. Once they're dead, they can't leave you.

She said this after you fucked her, but before you killed her. Not that it makes her right, of course. She'd thought she'd understood you so well, and you let her think that, because it made things easy, but she'd never really understood anything about you. No one ever has.

The urge to fuck, the urge to kill.

They do blur, sometimes. You have to admit that. Like right now, with your gun pressed to this pretty boy's forehead. He's trembling with rage, his eyes on fire, and it would be so ridiculously easy. Force him back into the lift, the barrel of your gun pressed into his skin like a kiss, and just take whatever you like from him. He'd be beautiful on his knees, eyes closed, mouth open wide.

Control. Possession. Ownership.

And when it's all over, pull the trigger. Because God knows he'd kill you if he had the chance. Even with your gun right there in his face, your finger on the trigger, he looks like he wants to tear you limb from limb. Or fuck you into oblivion, maybe; these things do blur sometimes. Even for pretty boys in pretty suits, they blur.

It's all about claiming someone.

The therapist never understood you, not really. No one ever does. But Eye Candy here? He just might.

So you let him go, except he doesn't. He lunges forward, forcing you a step back in surprise. He forces the elevator doors open with his bare hands, and leans into your face to hiss, "Why are you doing this?"

You almost shoot him, then. Instead, you run the gun over his smooth cheeks, a seduction, a tease. You remind him that "The jokes, the sex... just cover the fact that nothing means anything." You don't have to explain anything more than that; he's smart enough to get the point.

You both want the same thing, in the end. You both want Jack, but neither of you is ever going to have him. He'll never belong to anyone, not to you, and certainly not to Eye Candy, no matter how his eyes smoulder and his hands tremble.

He doesn't look away from you, even as you back him into the lift again, and you know that he understands, not everything, maybe, but better than most. You also know that if you let him live, you're going to regret it.

Then again, you might enjoy it, too.

As the lift doors close, he slams his fists into them, torn with frustration and rage, and you laugh. After all, you can track him down later if you need to; it'll be easy enough. Maybe you'll fuck him, maybe you'll kill him. Maybe he'll kill you.

It doesn't matter. Jack is up there on the roof, waiting for someone to find him, and it's going to be you.

Once they're dead, they can't leave you.

Careful

2007-11-06T01:59:03Z

Title: Careful
Author: lookninjas
Characters: Ianto/Lisa
Rating: PG-13; Lisa's got quite the temper.
Spoilers for: General for "Cyberwoman"

Summary: He's not her type. Not at all.

Disclaimer: None of this is mine, and I'm not publishing it in encyclopedia form. Really.

This was written for skidmo_fic's Song Lyrics Challenge; the prompt was:

"Someone tell me why I do the things that I don't want to do
When you're around me, I'm somebody else."
from "Teenage FBI," by Guided By Voices. It's more or less pure fluff.

The first word she ever said to him was, "Careful."

He was gawking, typical newbie behaviour, wide-eyed and awestruck at the size of this place, the glass and chrome and concrete and pure white marble. Other, more experienced Torchwood personnel brushed past him, rolling their eyes and making quiet comments to each other. Ordinarily, Lisa would have been one of them; she didn't go in for the adopt-a-newbie game. Either this dark-haired boy would get used to Torchwood or he wouldn't; either way, she wasn't going to see him around very much, so why did she care? But she did care, or she was intrigued, or she just really liked his tie, so she stopped. Tapped him on the shoulder. Said, "Careful," and grinned as he jumped at the sound of her voice. Easily startled, like a scared little bunny. Ordinarily, Lisa didn't like scared little bunnies. "You don't want to act like you're too impressed by the Tower. It's a sign of weakness, don't you know."

The newbie blinked. He had very blue eyes. Lisa'd never really been a fan of blue eyes Then he smiled, and the smile was nothing she would have expected. It was a sly twist of the lips that hinted at something decidedly un-bunny-like, something a little wicked, perhaps. "Sorry," he replied. "My facade of ironic detachment must have slipped for a moment."

She laughed, caught by surprise by both the joke and her own laughter. The newbie's accent was Welsh, folksy, smoothed over by a sort of Oxford refinement. Lisa had never really cared for Welsh accents, and she never ever wasted her time on Oxford boys. "Just don't let it happen again," she said, and thought of walking away. After all, she had no reason to stay, and plenty of reasons to go. Then she stuck her hand out. "Lisa Hallett."

"Ianto Jones." His grip was warm, dry and firm, and she rather liked that. Limp handshakes had always irritated her, and she didn't want a man who'd treat her like she was fragile. She didn't need to be cossetted and cared for; she'd always done fine on her own.

"So," she said, unwilling to walk off, though she couldn't have said just why. "Where've they got you hidden away, then?"

"Archives," he said, and she had to admit there was something in that smile of his. Also, he was taller than she'd first thought, lean but broad-shouldered. Dark-haired, pale-skinned, clean-shaven, comfortable in his suit. Attractive, to be sure. Still, not her type at all. "Very exciting place to work, really. Filing, dusting... not for the faint of heart. Yourself?"

"Accounting," she replied. "Dangerous place, but I can handle it."

His grin widened. There was something really unfair about that sly smile on such a nice boy. "You must be very brave. I don't think I have the courage for accounting, really. It's too much for me."

Lisa shrugged. "All in a day's work." She wondered if he meant to flirt with her, or if she was just reading too much into that smile. And if she was starting to ask herself those sorts of questions, it was time to go. "Speaking of work..."

The faintest flicker of disappointment crossed his face, or maybe she was still reading too much into this. "Of course. It was lovely to meet you, Ms. Hallett." He nodded at her, then turned on his heel to walk away.

"Remember," she called after him, and he turned with an expression of polite inquiry. "Don't look too impressed. They'll eat you alive if you do."

There really was something about his smile. "I'll do my best, Ms. Hallett," he replied, and with another nod, walked away.

Lisa watched him go. Not her type at all, really. Not her type at all.

*

The next time she saw Ianto Jones, he was bustling around the second-floor lounge, fiddling with the coffee maker, singing absently to himself in a remarkably pleasant baritone. It was very domestic.

Lisa'd never really been a fan of domestic.

"Careful," she said, and he turned to raise an inquiring eyebrow at her. "Alien coffeepot. Voice-activated. Hit the wrong note, and it'll blow up in your face."

He nods. "Thanks for the warning. Although it'd be more impressive if I hadn't already heard it from someone else three days ago."

She gaped at him for a few seconds before she recovered her equilibrium. "Bet it was Trevor," she muttered. "Bastard's always stealing my jokes."

"Trevor Jones?" he asked, and she nodded. "That it was. You have the better poker face, though."

"Thank you," she said, and watched as he pulled two mugs down from the rack. He hadn't even asked her if she wanted any, just assumed. Still, the coffee smelled divine.

He was back to singing again; it sounded a bit familiar. "'... a secret chord that David played and he pleased the Lord...' Cream and sugar?"

"Just black, thank you." He handed the mug over, and their fingers brushed, and for some reason, Lisa felt the stirring of butterflies in her stomach. And that wouldn't do at all; she didn't get nervous around men, not since she'd been fourteen. "I know that song. Rufus Wainwright?"

Another smile, just a bit condescending. "He did a version, but Leonard Cohen did it first."

Lisa was taken aback again, and really, this was getting unfair. Clean-cut, well-groomed Welsh boys were supposed to be predictable, and he wasn't at all, and she wasn't sure she liked it much. "Oh. Well. I never claimed to know much about music."

He opened his mouth as though he were about to say something, then shook his head and took a sip of his coffee instead. Lisa almost asked him what he'd almost said, but then thought better of it (she'd already made a fool of herself enough for one day), and raised her own coffee to her lips. It was, without a doubt, the most sublime experience involving hot drinks that she'd ever had. "Wow," she said, when she'd recovered.

Ianto Jones just chuckled. "Improvement over the usual, is it?"

"My God," Lisa said, and took another drink. "You really shouldn't let anyone else know you can do this, or you'll never do anything but make coffee for the rest of your life."

"I can keep a secret if you can." He grinned at her over his coffee mug, and damn him and his smiles. She'd have been able to come up with a really clever response to that if he hadn't smiled at her. His smile broadened, and he nodded slightly. "Good day, Ms. Hallett," he said, and brushed gently against her as he walked out of the room, coffee in hand.

And she was still speechless. And dammit, she didn't do speechless!

*

The problem was, Ianto Jones made her do a lot of things that she'd never done before.

Like jealousy.

It was stupid. She knew it was stupid. He wasn't her Ianto Jones, and she didn't want him to be, and even if he was, she'd never been jealous, and she'd never be jealous of someone like Joanne fucking Hawthorne, even if she was a field agent and had an absurd amount of cleavage (fake, of course, and the cleavage was the only reason she was a field agent in the first place.) Joanne Fucking Hawthorne wasn't nearly as clever as Lisa, nor as funny, and of course Ianto, who was ridiculously clever and funny in his own right, would see past all the cleavage and the blonde hair and the makeup and realize just how stupid Joanne Fucking Hawthorne really was...

And oh god, that bitch was fucking stroking his tie, and oh god, Lisa really shouldn't want to kill her as much as she did right then, but she did. She really really did.

And if Ianto hadn't carefully pulled his tie out of Joanne Fucking Hawthorne's grip, and politely excused himself...

Well, Lisa couldn't have been held responsible for what happened next.

But he did pull away, after all, and left Joanne fucking Hawthorne standing chagrined in the middle of the hallway, and Lisa grinned to herself and hurried to catch up with him. "You should be careful," she said, quietly. "A girl like that might snatch you up and steal you away, and then where would you be?"

He smiled sidelong at her, and take that, Joanne Hawthorne! "Wherever she set me down, of course," he replied, almost absently. His eyes met hers for a second, just a second, before he looked away. "Of course, a girl like you would never dream of doing such a thing."

"Of course not," she said, too fast, and her heart was pounding in an absurd way, and her hands had gone cold and damp. "I'm very old-fashioned."

"I can tell," he said, and gave her another look from the corner of his eye, and if she hadn't known better, she'd have sworn he was just as nervous as she was. "You'd wait for the gentleman to make the first move."

This couldn't really be happening.

"It'd only be proper, of course," she said, pleased to find her voice as steady as always, her tone light and teasing. His hand brushed against hers, and she sucked in a quick breath.

He stopped walking abruptly, put his hands in his pockets, and just looked at her for the longest time. And Lisa stood there, trying not to fidget, and let him study her like a specimen. "Flowers, first," he said. "Not roses, though. They're too showy. Something subtle. Classic."

Lisa opened her mouth to reply, but couldn't find anything to say. Her throat was dry and her mouth was stuffed with cotton wool, and dear god, he had the bluest eyes. There was something unnerving about his expression, at once nervous and predatory, and she swallowed hard.

"Good day, Ms. Hallett," he said, and walked briskly away.

*

Lisa didn't like flowers.

She didn't like flowers, and she was never jealous. She didn't care for music, and she didn't do domestic, and she didn't fall for clean-shaven Welsh boys who looked good in suits, even if they did have sly, knowing smiles and good handshakes and a way with coffee.

And she definitely, definitely didn't like flowers.

So when she arrived at work the next day and found a beautiful arrangement of white and plum calla lilies in a tall vase at her workstation, she ought to have laughed and discreetly thrown them away. She shouldn't have immediately gone off to hunt for Ianto Jones. And when she found him, back in the second floor lounge, making coffee and singing quietly to himself, she definitely shouldn't have grabbed him by the lapels, pushed him against the wall, and kissed him until they were both weak in the knees.

(He was an unfairly good kisser, of course.)

When they broke apart, panting for breath, his hair rumpled from her roaming hands, and his hands large and warm and perfect on her hips, he asked, "Liked the flowers, did you?"

"I loved them," she said, and kissed him even harder.

ninjasnano @ 2007-10-25T09:58:00

2007-10-25T14:11:21Z

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.

Kingdom of Air, Chapter Five: Runout

2007-10-24T19:35:14Z

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

Summary: Runout: Runout: (n) An uncomfortably long and often dangerous distance between two points of protection.

Disclaimer: I own neither Torchwood nor Dr. Who.

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

6 October 2008

It’s a sad and bedraggled lot that trudges through the snow and away from Dhaulagiri Base Camp. They’re thin and tired, sunburnt, scraped, dirty. Exhausted.

But they aren’t dead yet, and that’s enough to go on for now.

It’s snowing again, but only lightly, only enough to remind Ianto that they haven’t got much time to get out of the mountains and down to warmer country. Another heavy snowfall, and they’d be trapped for good, nothing to do but die. He's got to keep them moving.

It’s still difficult for Ianto to comprehend, to know completely that it’s just the four of them left. Every time he looks up, he half-expects to see Hillary, grinning at him from behind that thick blond beard, or Tenzing watching him with wary eyes. But Ianto is in the lead now, picking out the path for the others to follow, and when they stop, they’ll set up their own tent and cook their own meal. No one to do it for them. No one to help them if things go wrong.

Just a compass and a cheap map, that’s all they have.

Still, they’ve made it this far, and Ianto isn’t about to let them lay down and die now. They need to find Harold Saxon, to stop him. They need answers. They need to do something, make it all mean something. They can‘t, Ianto can‘t, let all those deaths be for nothing.

But even thinking of Harold Saxon gives him an uneasy feeling, like he’s being watched. Thus far, they’ve managed to stay about half a step ahead of the man (if he’s a man at all), but there’s no guarantee their luck will hold. Saxon could still have one last trick up his sleeve, something none of them could predict. All they have is hope, now, hope that Saxon will assume that the job is done now that his artifact has exploded. Hope that Saxon will assume that they're easy to kill.

Hope, a compass, and a cheap map.

Ianto glances down at the map in his hands. The path to Muri is nothing more than a thin red line. He looks back at the threatening bulk of the mountains, checks his compass. They're headed in the right direction. He'll get them to Muri, and then he'll get them home. He has to.

The others watch him, patiently waiting for his next move. They seem to have faith in him, and it's terrifying, but it's reason enough to keep moving. He can't let his team down.

Hope, a compass, a cheap map, and each other.

It isn’t much, but Ianto thinks maybe it could be enough. Maybe.

7 October 2008

They’re curled up against each other in the tent, packed tight like sardines. Ianto swears he feels every movement that they make as they roll over, shift, try to get comfortable. They’re all elbows and knees, cold toes, steaming breath, and Owen’s cough refuses to give up and go away. And they stink, too, all of them. Bad breath. No showers, no chance to wash their clothing. A rapidly dwindling supply of deodorant.

The weird thing is how it really doesn’t bother him. They’re all alone in a harsh and hostile landscape, and there’s a comfort in cramming together in one tent, clinging to each other like children frightened of the dark. He wonders if he might actually miss this when they get home.

If they get home.

“It’s Election Day,” Tosh says, her voice breaking the quiet. “Do you think...”

Owen snorts. “He’s got the entire British population brainwashed, Tosh. There isn’t a hope in heaven that he’d lose.”

“Maybe it’s for the best, though,” Gwen says. “I mean... not really, but... if it’ll keep him distracted...”

Ianto can’t think of anything to say. He feels strange somehow, as though he’s in two places at the same time. No, that’s not quite right; he’s in two times at the same place. It’s a strange thought, and he clamps it down at once. He’s only frightened, that’s all. It’s been a bad month and it isn’t over yet, and he’s having a hard time coping. It’ll pass. It always does.

“We still don’t know how to stop him,” Owen points out. “Christ only knows what he’s going to do now he’s got access to the Rift, or if that’s even what he wants.”

“Worry about that later,” Ianto replies, forcing himself to sound calm, because he’s the leader now and he has to be calm. “Right now, let’s just get back to civilization. Then we’ll worry about Saxon.”

“And hope he’s forgotten about us,” Gwen murmurs.

8 October 2008

Just breathing is enough to make Ianto feel giddy. The air is rich down here, waking up his numbed, oxygen-starved mind, and the sun is gentler. It warms them without scorching. Black rock and blue ice have been replaced by lush green grass, poppies nodding in the breeze. There is life, here. After all that death, there is life. He breathes it all in and lets it fill him up.

The others have caught his mood; their steps are lighter, quicker, their heads higher. Gwen laughs and shakes her head, and Tosh listens with interest as Ianto and Owen bicker. "All I'm saying is that if it were a fair footrace, the Flash would win. Every bloody time."

Ianto snorts. "Your idea of a fair footrace involves Superman willingly forsaking the use of all his powers, while the Flash can do whatever he bloody well pleases."

Owen flushes; he's taken some of the bandages off, and his face is scabbing over, healing rapidly now that they're at lower altitude. He's still uglier than usual, but there's something hopeful in that, a small sign of progress made. "I never said..."

"The Flash can vibrate through any obstacles in his path, but Superman has to go around?" Honestly, Ianto doesn't even really care; he was never much of one for comic books, but Gwen is rolling her eyes at them in an affectionate sort of way, and Tosh is giggling, and that's more than enough reason to make an arse of himself. They look happy for the first time in so long, not scared and miserable, but genuinely happy. He will do whatever it takes to make the moment last, as long as he can.

"Look," Owen says, hands on his hips, looking like nothing so much as an angry rooster. "If you're so certain that your precious Superman will win, there's no harm in giving him a bit of a handicap, is there?"

"He's not my..." The sky goes abruptly dark, and Ianto's voice dies somewhere on the way to his throat. He looks up, his heart hammering in his chest.

Ianto watches as the sun is covered up by masses of black thunderheads, cutting off all light and warmth. He shivers in the sudden chill, breathing in short, shallow gasps. Then the sky just cracks, splitting apart to reveal a dark and terrifying void, edged by flames and crackles of lightning. For a moment, there is only that, only the void, and then black specks start boiling out of it, like a plague of locusts descending. They fill the sky, moving in every direction, a cloud spreading over the entire world.

All is silent, and yet Ianto can almost hear it, pounding in the distance. The drumbeat. The call to war.

Gwen draws in a short, sharp breath, and then another. "Wh-what... what is it?" she asks, her voice shaking so badly that it's a miracle the words come out at all.

No one has an answer for her. Ianto himself can't speak; he's afraid that this is how the world ends. They huddle together, silent, watching Armageddon streak across the skies.

Finally, Ianto gives himself a litle shake, hoists his pack higher on his shoulders, and looks back at the others. "We have to keep going."

Owen gapes at him; even Tosh looks startled. "But... those things..." Gwen protests.

Ianto takes a deep breath and keeps his eyes on his team; he can't look at the sky anymore. If he does, he'll never have the courage to move again. "We can't do anything about that now, Gwen. All we can do is keep moving, try to get home."

His eyes meet Owen's, looking for something, some support. "Right," Owen says, finally. "Let's go." He wraps his arm around Tosh's shoulders and pulls her close, tugging her forward, and the two of them walk on together.

Gwen is still staring at the sky. Ianto lays a hand on her shoulder, finally managing to get her attention. "Gwen," he says, quietly. "Come on."

She looks at him for a long time, her eyes huge. "I'm scared, Ianto."

"I know," he says. "But we have to keep going."

Gwen presses her lips together and nods once. Her arm wraps around him, and he lets her lean on him as they hurry to catch up with Owen and Tosh. Nobody says anything more. They crowd together, backs hunched as they flee before the gathering storm.

9 October 2008

Owen is sipping a mug of boiled water, watching Ianto with the strangest expression on his face, something almost like the look he had when Jack was laying still and peaceful in the morgue, like he's done something he'll never forgive himself for. Ianto can't understand it. None of this is Owen's fault. If anything, Ianto is the one who should have...

He stops that thought before it can go any further and tears his gaze away from Owen, to Tosh and Gwen. They're sitting together, a few meters away. Tosh is nibbling on a bit of trail mix in a numb, automatic way, curled into herself, seeing nothing. Gwen is trying to drag a comb through her tangled, filthy hair, a strange sort of desperation on her face; Ianto supposes this is her way of trying to bring back normality, to make things a little less nightmarish, a little less bleak. But she can't do it; after a few minutes' dogged struggle, she flings the comb to the ground and buries her head in her hands. Tosh, right next to her, doesn't even flinch.

They're on the verge of falling apart, all of them. It'll only take one thing, one small thing, to shatter them. So before Gwen can start to cry, Ianto picks up the comb and settles in behind her. "Let me," he says.

"Sorry." Gwen sniffles, wiping at her eyes with grubby fingers. "It's stupid, I know, only hair, but..."

Ianto says nothing, his fingers working gently through her dark hair, carefully pulling apart the worst of the matting. She relaxes, her shoulders slumping, her head dropping forward. "You're good at this," she says.

For just a moment, the familiarity of the situation overcomes the fear, and Ianto smiles, remembering. "Four younger sisters," he says. "You get a lot of practice in."

"Four? Christ." There's something strange in Owen's eyes, something almost sad.

"I bet you made an excellent big brother," Gwen says, tipping her head forward so he has a better angle.

Made. Past tense. It is possible, of course, that he will never see his family again, that he will die here and they will never know what happened to him, that they will wait forever. But then he thinks of the sky opening up, black specks boiling out in every direction, all over the world. There were so many of them. They could have gone anywhere, everywhere. Maybe Newport is burning. Maybe Wales has been destroyed. Maybe everything and everyone he loves is already dead.

"Ianto?"

He takes a deep breath and goes back to work, teasing apart a knot with the comb, because not everyone is dead. Not yet.

A laugh rises up from out of nowhere -- it can't be anyone on the team; it's someone, something else. It's almost innocent, almost a child's laugh, and yet it's alien. Malevolent. Deeply wrong. Gwen stiffens. Tosh's head snaps up as she looks around, her hands trembling. Owen drops his cup and stands, water darkening the ground at his feet. "What the fuck," Owen breathes.

Ianto feels the hair on the back of his neck standing on end.. He carefully sets the comb down, no sudden movements, and rises, drawing his gun and stepping in front of Gwen. "Hello?" he asks, trying to keep his voice calm. "Is anyone there?"

There's only laughter, echoing through the clearing.

Owen slinks up to Ianto's side, his own gun clenched in shaking hands. "What d'you think it is?" he asks.

"No clue," Ianto breathes, before calling out again. "Come on out! We won't hurt you."

More laughter, and Ianto can't suppress a shudder. There's something so wrong in that sound.

"There!" Tosh cries, pointing, but whatever she saw is already gone by the time Ianto spins around. "Did you see it?"

"Too fast," Owen mutters, holstering his gun. "Too fucking fast."

"It was one of those black things, the ones we saw yesterday," Tosh insists. "I know it."

Ianto swallows hard, his heart still pounding away at a thousand miles an hour. If Tosh is right (and she is, of course she is)...

Owen folds his arms; he looks more frightened than angry. "Could be those... things are what Saxon wanted. Like a weapon. Or an army."

Tosh nods, chewing nervously on her lip. Her eyes are fixed far away, on the spot where she saw that thing. "If they came from Saxon, they'll go back to him. They'll tell him where we are."

Ianto takes a deep breath, then another, finally tucks his gun back in its holster. "Right," he says, and stops, because he has no idea what to say. How can he possibly make them feel safe now? "From now on, we're armed at all times," he finally tells them, and it isn't much, Christ knows, but it's all he can think of. He wonders, again, how Jack ever managed.

Gwen and Tosh immediately unzip their rucksacks and start rummaging through for their weapons. Ianto glances at Owen, sees the other man watching him with something close to respect. They wait for the girls to load their guns, tuck them into holsters, sling their packs back onto their shoulders. "Come on," Ianto says, finally, and they start walking towards Muri once again.

Muri. Just the name of it sounds alive, beautiful. Inspires hope. They'll make it. They have to.

But Ianto can't help thinking of that laughter. It was so... cruel. Mocking. Triumphant, even. Like they'd already lost this fight.

They just didn't know it yet.

10 October 2008

He’s probably pushing them too hard, too fast, but he’s so scared right now. Even worse, none of them are complaining. They follow him without question.

They haven’t seen anything since yesterday; they haven’t heard anything. But Ianto can’t shake the feeling that they’re being watched. Worse than that, he can’t shake the feeling that every step he’s forcing them to take is just hurrying them towards their deaths.

But to stop would be to give up, and he’s not willing to do that either.

He keeps going, and the others follow without a word.

11 October 2008

For just a moment, Ianto gives in to the despair, letting out a sound that's not quite a laugh, not quite a sob.

This is Muri.

This was Muri. Now it is burned, destroyed, demolished; nothing more than rubble and scorched stone. The air is thick with greasy smoke, and the smoke has a tang that's almost like cooked meat, but... not meat. Not at all.

No one could have survived this. Ianto chokes back another helpless noise. It’s a bit late for tears anyway.

“What could have done this,” Gwen says, staring horrified at a heap of smoldering wood that may have been a house, or a teashop, or possibly a traveler’s lodge. A blackened arm sticks out from underneath the rubble, and Ianto knows he’ll never forget this, as long as he lives. “Why? Why would someone... why would anyone...” Gwen looks at them all with horrified eyes, and Owen glances up from the wreckage, his expression haunted.

“Come off it, Gwen,” he says, tersely. “Saxon’s already proved he doesn’t give a rat’s arse who he kills, so long as we die too.”

Tosh kicks over a plank of wood, as if expecting one of the little black balls to dodge out from underneath it, but there’s nothing. Ianto draws his gun anyway, just in case. “So,” Tosh says. “Now what?”

“We’re nearly out of food,” Ianto says, and pretends his voice isn’t shaking. “We’ll have to scavenge some up before we go anywhere else.”

“What if there isn’t anywhere else?” Gwen demands, and she’s getting hysterical now. “What if the whole world’s like this?”

Owen picks himself up and dusts himself off. “Well, then, I guess we’ll sit here and die, shall we?”

Gwen looks close to tears, and really, this has gone far enough. “Owen,” Ianto snaps, and Owen falls silent, turns away as though chastened. It's not that Ianto blames either of them; if he could take refuge in panic or rage, he would. But he's got to keep the team together. He can't let them fall apart, not now. “We can’t give up hope now, Gwen." He touches her hand as gently as possible; out of the corner of his eyes, he can see Tosh drawing nearer, see Owen look up. He's got everyone's attention. Good. "There have to be survivors somewhere. We will find them. We have to keep going.”

Gwen finally meets his eyes, almost smiling, and then he hears it again, that laughter. There’s nowhere left to run. “Get down!” Ianto shouts, seizing Gwen around the waist and hurling her behind what remains of a stone wall. Owen, bless him, never hesitates, tackling Tosh and dragging her to shelter. Then the black balls are filling the sky, so many of them. Too many.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are!” a child’s voice calls, and it grips him for a moment, that sense of dreadful wrongness. The voice is alien, mad, terrifying. “Come and play, Mr. Jones!”

“Naughty Mr. Jones!”

“Bad Mr. Jones!”

They’re calling him by name. The fear surges, and then suddenly recedes, replaced by a last, desperate wave of hope. If he can buy the others a bit of time, even just a little bit... “If it looks like I’ve got them distracted,” Ianto hisses in Gwen’s ear, “you have to run. Run and don’t stop. The others will follow you.”

She whimpers and clutches at him, but Ianto steps out of hiding, steps out into the open, the black orbs hovering all around him like a dark cloud. “Who are you?” he asks, and his voice is shaking badly. “What do you want?”

"We are the Toclafane!" one chirps, in that high, obscenely childlike voice.

"This is our place now."

"Master gave it to us. It's a good place. We like it."

"You can't have it," Ianto says, because there isn’t anything else to say. "It's ours."

"Master gave it to us!"

"We don't listen to you!"

Ianto is scrambling for something else to say when there’s a flash of light and Gwen shrieks. Instinctively, he moves to protect her, but the black orbs have suddenly sprouted blades. They swarm around him, blocking his path. He can only watch as his team is rousted from their hiding spots and herded back towards him.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, because they’re all going to die.

“’Salright, mate,” Owen says, drawing his gun. The others follow suit, because even if it’s useless, they’ve got to do something. “You tried.”

Ianto blinks away sudden tears.

The sun beats down on them as they stand in the middle of the ruins, smoke rising up to heaven. The Toclafane are a thick, black circle around them, a hurricane cloud, and his team form a circle of their own, shoulder to shoulder, guns out. Ianto lifts his chin, forces his hands to stop shaking. “This is our world,” he says, and his voice is surprisingly steady. “Not yours, not your Master’s. And we’ll get it back.”

They just laugh at him.

He fires, but it’s like trying to shoot smoke; there’s no way he can hit them or hurt them. And then they’re coming at him, and he doesn’t even have time to scream, just a low groan torn from his throat as the blades sink in, severing tendons in bright flashes of pain, cutting into him, cutting him apart, and he feels himself collapsing like a puppet with its strings severed, and behind him, someone is screaming, someone else is shouting, but he can't quite make out what they're saying.

There's dust in his eyes, and he can't reach up to rub at them. Tears blur his vision. There’s a bit of wet red in front of him, and he isn’t sure whether it’s part of someone else’s body, or part of his.

His heartbeat is slow, and each breath causes a sharp stab of agony, and he doesn’t think he can move anything because he’s not sure there’s anything left of him to move. He tries anyway, because his team is in danger, and he has to protect them, but even the small twitch he manages sets fire shooting through his body, and he collapses with a whimper.

For a moment, he wonders if he’s already dead, and if this is what eternity is going to be like.

Then there’s a darkness folding itself around him, different than anything he’s ever known, deep and warm and somehow kind, and although he tries to fight it, tries to cling to the pain if that’s what it takes...

He's 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 cry out at once, all of them chanting the same name. A strange, radiant glow.

*

*

*

"DOCTOR!"

*

*

*

8 October 2008

"The Flash can vibrate through any obstacles in his path, but Superman has to go around?" Honestly, Ianto doesn't know why he's having this argument; he doesn't even really care for comic books. But Tosh and Gwen are giggling and rolling their eyes, and they could all use a bit of a distraction, something to think about besides mountains and bodies and this long, exhausting trek.

He just wishes it didn't feel so familiar, somehow. Like they'd already had this fight. Like he's stuck in two times at the same place.

"Look," Owen says, hands on his hips. He's flushed from exertion, and looks comical, like an angry rooster. For some reason, just that makes Ianto shudder. "If you're so certain that your precious Superman will win, there's no harm in giving him a bit of a handicap, is there?"

"He's not my..." Ianto's voice dies in his throat, and he half expects the sky to grow dark, but it doesn't. The sun is shining, the grass is green, the poppies sway in the breeze. The air is rich, saturated with oxygen. Why does he feel like he can't breathe? "It's just ridiculous, that's all," he says, trying to sound like he isn't terrified. "Superman's faster than a speeding bullet; of course he'll win."

"Yes, but the Flash is capable of traveling at at least ten times the speed of light," Tosh says. "More than that, possibly, although it depends on which Flash you're talking about. Barry Allen was the fastest, of course, because he had the closest connection to the Speed Force, and he was said to actually travel faster than the speed of thought..." She blushes, realizing that everyone is staring, and falls abruptly silent.

"There, you see? Tosh knows what she's talking about." Owen beams, and claps Toshiko on the shoulder. "The Flash wins. Every time."

Ianto nods, absently. "I suppose so," he says, and tries to puzzle out why this feels so wrong, why he's so sure it wasn't supposed to go this way.

They keep walking, and Ianto tries to ignore the echoes pounding through his head, the memory of drums.

9 October 2008

Gwen struggles to work a comb through the snarls and tangles in her dark hair, face a picture of frustration. Ianto half-expects her to throw the comb down, to burst into tears. But she doesn't, and when he thinks about it, Ianto wonders why he even thought she'd be upset. It's only hair, after all.

Owen is watching him, studying him like a specimen. There's something almost like worry on the doctor's face; it makes Ianto uneasy, both frightened and vaguely angry. He doesn't need Owen thinking he's about to crack up. He can handle this.

When he can't take it anymore, he pushes to his feet and crosses the clearing, settling down behind Gwen and plucking the comb from her hand. "You're making a mess of it," he says, a bit more sharply than intended, then takes a deep breath and gentles his tone. "Let me."

"You really don't have to," Gwen protests, but her head drops forward to give him better access. He works at the knots from the bottom up, slow and careful, and they practically undo themselves. "You're better at this than I am," Gwen admits, finally.

"Four younger sisters," Ianto says. "You get a lot of practice in."

"Four?" Owen repeats. For some reason, Ianto was expecting to see sorrow on Owen's face, but there's only a sort of amused surprise. "Christ. I feel sorry for you."

Gwen tells him that he must be an amazing older brother. Ianto doesn't reply, and tries to ignore the trace of mocking laughter that echoes around the clearing. It's only dreams. He can handle this.

10 October 2008

He's probably pushing them too hard, too fast, but he's so scared right now. The strange thing is, he doesn't really know why.

Owen is bitching again, complaining about the nature and the walking and the pace, saying that he's not the Flash after all, and he's still got that bloody cough, and really, they could slow down a bit, it's not like anything is following them. For some reason, those words make Ianto's heart leap, make it thud so loudly he's amazed the others can't see it.

Tosh catches up to him, rests a hand on his arm. “Ianto,” she says, her eyes so worried, her hand so gentle. "Are you all right?"

How can he explain this dislocation, this sense of two times in the same place? He can't, of course. She'd worry, and even if she didn't, there simply aren't words for it, not in English, not in any language. “Sorry,” he says, with his best sheepish grin. “I just... the sooner we're back to civilization, the happier I'll be.”

Tosh squeezes his forearm. “Believe me, I understand.” He slows down to keep pace with her, letting the others catch up to them. “Didn't sleep very well last night, did you?” she asks.

Ianto can only blink. To be quite honest, he doesn't remember sleeping at all. “Sorry. Did I keep you up?”

She shrugs. “I wasn't sleeping very well either. Only... you just sounded really frightened. Bad dreams?”

“Must have been.” Ianto smiles. “I don't remember them. Actually, I hardly ever remember my dreams, so there's one for you. Even if they're terrible, they're gone by next day.”

“Lucky you,” Tosh says, and he gets the sense that she doesn't quite believe him. But she doesn't argue, either.

He keeps going, slowing the pace down, and the others follow him.

11 October 2008

Ianto lets out a sound that is not quite a laugh, not quite a sob.

This is Muri.

Plumes of smoke rise up from the village, probably cooking fires. The little huts are all beautifully, perfectly intact. The villagers spare them confused, and possibly concerned, looks as they go about their daily business. Ianto supposes that it’s not every day a group of lost trekkers wanders into Muri, bedraggled and only half alive, staring about them as if this tiny village were Shangri-La.

Gwen’s arm slips around Ianto’s waist, and Owen ducks his head and takes a few deep breaths, because they’re here, and they haven’t died, and right now, it’s hard to believe. It's strange, but somehow Ianto was sure... He was so sure...

After a few, numb seconds, Tosh says, “Well. I suppose we’d better find a teahouse or something, hadn’t we?” Then she’s approaching the nearest villager (an old man with a face full of wrinkles, and a mouth with no teeth left), trying to start a conversation in her fractured, phrasebook Nepali.

Ianto can only cling to Gwen and stare, because he really really didn’t think they’d get out of this alive, and yet here they are, and they’re still breathing.

*

There aren’t any teahouses, but the old man has a field for their tent, and a wife who’s more than willing to fill them full of dal bhat, and it’s amazing after five days of stumbling through the wilderness just to sit in someone’s kitchen and eat food that they don’t have to rehydrate. It’s amazing just to be in a building, not in a tent.

It’s amazing just to be alive.

After supper, they huddle together in the tent (their last night packed in like this, like sardines, and Ianto thinks he really will miss it, strangely enough), as Tosh fiddles with her laptop, fingers flying with renewed vitality, and suddenly, there it is, the outside world, a newscaster’s voice. “-- a world still reeling from the death of President Winters, assassinated by British Prime Minister Harold Saxon.”

“What the bleeding blue fuck,” Owen whispers, in awe. The others lean in to get a better view. Ianto hangs back, even though he doesn't know why.

When the small black orbs, all blades and lasers and childlike voices, appear on the screen, he begins to shake and cannot stop.

(come and play, Mr. Jones)

And even when the Doctor appears in a burst of radiant light,

(naughty Mr. Jones)

And Jack is there to block Saxon’s escape, dirty and disheveled, but grinning his old familiar grin,

(bad Mr. Jones)

Ianto cannot stop himself from shaking, shaking.

“Knew it,” Owen growls. “Knew Harkness would get himself mixed up in this somehow.”

And for the first time in a long time, Ianto finds himself mercilessly claustrophobic, scarcely able to breathe in this confined space, with the team huddled around him. He pushes away, ignoring Tosh’s worried eyes, Owen’s knowing look. “Excuse me for a moment, won’t you?” he asks, and hurries out of the tent without waiting for a reply.

(he feels himself collapsing like a puppet with its strings severed, and behind him, someone is screaming)

(he can’t move)

(there’s nothing he can do)

He collapses on the ground, his legs folded beneath him, and tries to catch his breath. It occurs to him that he might just be going out of his mind. He’s dislocated, two times in the same place, and he’s dead, but he’s not. He’s Schrödinger’s cat.

He’s really going out of his mind.

But somehow, when his mobile rings, he pulls it out of his pocket, flips it open, and says “Ianto Jones,” in a voice that’s far too calm to have ever belonged to him. He hasn’t even answered his phone for over a month, but. Old habits die hard.

“Ianto?” The voice on the other end is shaky, filled with strange emotions, but Ianto knows that voice so well. Even months after he last heard it, he still knows it. He will always know it.

“Jack,” he breathes, and it’s a good thing he’s sitting down, because if he weren’t, his legs would have given out from underneath him. “Oh God, Jack.”

“Ianto. Ianto, Ianto.” For a few seconds, all Ianto can hear is Jack’s shaky breathing. Then he starts talking, fast. “Where are you? How are you? How’s the team? Is everyone all right? Are you --”

Despite himself, Ianto lets out a curious, quavering laugh. “Jack, please, one at a time.” Jack falls silent, and Ianto takes a deep breath, then another, because this really is just too surreal. “We’re in Muri; it’s in Nepal, in the foothills of the Dhaulagiri Himal. We’re alive. We’re all right. We’re...” And he thinks of everything that’s happened, everything he’s seen, everything he’s had to do, and he swallows hard. “We’re alive,” he says again. “Are you all right? Are you still on the Valiant?”

“There’s some things I have to do,” Jack says. “Just some loose ends that have to be tied up. I’ve been calling and calling, but I couldn’t get through. Ianto...”

“We’re all right now, Jack,” Ianto says, and it’s soothing in a way, to comfort Jack. “We’re alive.”

“Alive.” Jack says it with such reverence, and for just a moment,

(he’s already dead)

Ianto is absolutely sure --

(darkness folding around him)

“Alive,” Jack says again, and the memories fall away.

“And you’re alive,” Ianto says, unable to keep the flood of relief out of his voice.

Jack laughs, and the sound is pained, desperate; it hints at a hundred thousand things that Ianto doesn’t want to think about. “I’m always alive,” Jack says, and he doesn’t sound too happy about that, but then the moment passes. “You’ll be home soon?”

“There’s a bus coming to take us to Pokhara tomorrow,” Ianto says. “And from there to Kathmandu, Heathrow... We should be in Cardiff in three days, four at the most. Are you...” It’s hard to find the words. “Will you be...”

Jack’s laugh is warmer this time, more like himself. “Yes, Ianto,” he says, very quietly. “I’m not sure when I’ll be done here; there’s a lot to take care of, but as soon as it’s all over, I’ll be home. I promise.”

“Good.” A traitorous sniffle escapes him then; he has to choke back his tears with an effort. “That’s good to hear, sir. I’ll... I’ll make sure there’s coffee waiting for you.”

More laughter, and it sounds like Jack hasn’t laughed in ages. Ianto wants to ask him what happened, what really happened, but he doubts Jack could tell him, even if he was in the mood to do it. “Ianto,” Jack says. “Christ, I’ve missed your coffee.”

“As have I, sir. I did my best, but there’s only so much one can do with a propane stove and a jar of instant crystals.” This time, they laugh together, and Ianto wonders how much Jack can tell from the tone of his voice, the tenor of his laugh. Probably everything; he doesn't have the presence of mind to hide himself, not right now. But it doesn’t really matter much. It’s enough to pretend that everything’s all right, for the moment.

The rest will come later.

“All right.” There’s a note of resignation in Jack’s voice. “I have to go. There’s so much... But I’ll be home soon, Ianto, I promise. Tell the others... tell them I’ll be home soon.”

Ianto smiles. Home. “I will, Jack.”

“And tell them that if they’re going to hit me, I’d prefer it if they left my face alone.”

“I’ll hold them back, sir.”

“Thank you.” Jack’s voice cracks on the words, unexpectedly. “Thank you for looking after them, Ianto.”

Ianto has to take a few deep breaths, and fight to keep his voice steady. “Just doing my job, sir.”

“I’ll see you soon, Ianto.”

“See you soon. Jack.”

“Bye.” There’s a long space of silence as the two of them cling to their phones, unwilling to break the connection, and then a soft click as Jack finally hangs up. It takes a bit longer for Ianto to be able to do the same.

Finally, he flips his phone shut and slides it into his pocket. He needs to get back to the others; he needs to tell them... Instead, he buries his face in his hands, and sits like that for a long time.

It’s over. It’s finally over.

*

*

*

(It’s never really over.)

Author's note: This was probably the hardest section to write, technically, and required the most editing assistance. seize came through big time, and made some really brilliant suggestions. If you like it enough to comment, maybe send some thanks her way?

Kingdom of Air, Chapter Four: Belay

2007-10-23T14:06:16Z

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

Summary: Belay: (v) To protect a climber from falling by using rope, friction, and an anchor.

Disclaimer: I own neither Torchwood nor Dr. Who.

Previous Chapters: Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three

I can never say enough nice things about my beta, seize.

4 October 2008

The storm broke at around midnight, and the sky is clear now, the stars bright and brittle overhead. Owen is shaking and shivering and coughing; Gwen is holding his hand.

The snow is probably thigh-deep in places, and Ianto's got everyone's gear on his own back. It doesn't matter now. He'll get them down safely. He has to.

Hillary, the sherpas, and the men from London have gathered for the final push up to the artifact. In the light of Ianto's headlamp, Hillary looks resigned, Tenzing grim and stoic. Steve's eyes glitter madly. Scott's face is pale and his eyes are unfocused.

"Come with us," Ianto says, one last time. "Please. It isn't safe."

Steve only turns away. Scott wets his lips, shakes his head. "I'm sorry," he says, and his voice is already slurred. "I can't..."

"Think of your girl," Gwen says softly. "Think of your Linda. Don't you want to see her again?"

Scott lets out a short, pained laugh. "You really don't understand, do you?" he asks. "I am thinking of Linda," he says. "This is for her. To keep her safe."

"If Saxon's threatened her..." Gwen says. "We can help. We can --"

"You don't understand," Scott says, and turns away.

"Please," Gwen says, and Ianto lays a hand on her shoulder. She falls silent.

Ianto nods at Hillary and Tenzing. "We'll meet you back at Base Camp," he says, even though he doesn't believe it for a second.

Hillary raises his hand and Tenzing nods back.

"Come on," Ianto says, and ushers his team towards the fixed ropes leading down the mountain. He isn't surprised to find that they're completely buried in the snow. In the distance, he can hear the soft ksssssh-shusssshhhh hissing as snow breaks loose from the mountain and tumbles down, small avalanches everywhere.

He isn't frightened. There just isn't room for it right now.

He pulls a coil of rope from his pack, ties an end of it to Gwen's harness, the tightest, strongest knot he knows. Owen is next. "We'll have to rope together right now, and hope that the fixed ropes are clear further down. I'll go first and set the trail. All you have to do is follow me. All right?"

Gwen nods, and after a moment, Owen does, too.

Ianto stares down the slope for a moment, searching. He sees a boulder he recognizes, one just above Yellow Boots' hollow. "Right. Here we go, then."

All around him, he can hear small avalanches sweeping down the mountain's flank. Owen puffs for air. There's chatter from above as Hillary ushers the rest of the team up and up, towards their precious artifact.

Ianto doesn't look back. He keeps his eyes focused on the trail going down, back to Base Camp, and safety, and home.

Their pace is necessarily slow, more for Ianto's sake than for Owen's this time around. He's breaking trail through snow that laps up his calves, up to his thighs in some points, and it's tiring work. He gasps for air with every step, the cold burning his throat and lungs. But a curious calm has swept over him, and he embraces it, lets it carry him along. Even when avalanches sweep the slope bare just a few yards away from where they're climbing, there's nothing, no emotion. He waits for the swirling, blowing snow to settle on the slopes, then finds the next landmark and sets a course towards it. It's four breaths for every step now, sometimes five or even six, but it doesn't matter. It's taking them as long to hike down as it did to climb up. That doesn't matter either.

He'll do everything in his power to keep them safe. It's all he can control. The rest is up to the mountain.

They're at the technical sections just above Camp One, carefully cramponing their way down a nearly vertical slope, when Owen fails to get his points in all the way. Ianto sees him scrabbling for purchase, sees that he won't make it, and slams the pick of his ice axe into the slope, wrapping the rope around it, around his shoulders and arms. His body curls, knees pressing into the slope as he twists to the side. "Gwen! Owen's falling!" Then Owen slides past, his crampons slicing into the shoulder of Ianto's down suit and spilling feathers everywhere, white on white on the snow, and Gwen is being dragged down with him, and there's nothing Ianto can do but hold on.

The rope goes taut, stretching just enough, and Ianto feels a heavy weight pulling at him, but he's got his ice axe well planted, and he holds on. "Owen!" he shouts. "Gwen!"

"I'm all right," Gwen pants. "I've stopped." Ianto glances back over his shoulder, and sees Gwen's axe planted in the slope, holding her up several feet below him. "I'm all right. Owen, love?"

Owen coughs and coughs, and Ianto takes a deep breath, because if Owen's coughing, it means he's still alive. "Banged up a bit," Owen says, finally, his voice an exhausted croak. "Can't seem to get my footing."

Ianto closes his eyes. "Right. Gwen, can you get down and help him?"

"Yes," she says, no hesitation.

"All right," Ianto says. "Take it slowly. I've got you."

"I know," Gwen says.

He holds on as tight as he can, the rope cutting into his shoulders, a stripe of cold fire down his upper arm where Owen's crampons grazed him. He listens to Gwen's steps crunching into the slope, solid and firm, and ignores the pain in his shoulders, the way his hands are going numb. Finally, the rope goes slack. "Christ," Owen rasps, his voice little more than an exhausted wheeze. "Bloody harness is murder on the bollocks."

Ianto's shoulders shake, but he isn't sure if he's laughing or not.

"Ianto?" Gwen asks.

"Fine." The word is breathed into the ice, nothing more. "Let's keep going." He begins to descend again, slow and careful.

Gwen's found a small ledge, just enough for all three of them to stand on, leaning against the mountain. Owen's face is badly scraped from his fall, but the damage looks superficial. He's hunched over slightly, obviously in pain, one hand clutching at his separated ribs. The real concern, however, is his gloves. He's lost them. Ianto's eyebrow quirks upward, and his eyes meet Owen's.

Owen shakes his head. "Nuh-uh." His voice is weak, pained, exhausted. "You need those gloves."

"So do you." Ianto plants his ice axe in the slope again and begins to pull his gloves off. "You're the doctor. We'll need your hands."

"And you're the sodding climber, and we'll need your hands," Owen growls back.

Ianto looks at Owen a bit longer, then pulls the thin liners out of his gloves. "Fine." He hands the gloves to Owen, and pulls the liners back on. "It won't be comfortable, but it'll do 'til we're at Camp One."

Owen doesn't look satisfied, doesn't move, and finally Gwen takes his hands and puts the gloves on him herself. "Stupid stubborn git," she mutters.

Ianto takes the opportunity to look down again. There's the fin of rock that Tenzing pointed out to him days ago, and not far beneath it, Camp One. And there's something else as well. A few hundred yards from Camp One, something bright green protruding from a snow drift.

He swallows hard, and glances back at his team. "Right. Shall we keep going?"

They look at each other for a few more seconds, the space of a deep breath, and then Ianto carefully leads them over the side of the ledge and down.

Twenty minutes of very careful climbing sees them finally at the remains of Camp One. Some of the tents have been flattened by the wind and snow, or shredded. Some are simply gone. Ianto looks up and over at the fin of rock, and sees the blaze of bright green. He already knows that it's someone in a down suit. He just doesn't know who they are, if they're alive, and if he can save them if they are.

He unclips from the rope that's bound him to Owen and Gwen, pulls the overloaded pack off his back, and begins rummaging through it. Every movement brings a stinging tug in his upper arm; there's no doubt that Owen's crampons cut straight through the down suit and into Ianto's flesh, and now the blood is sticking to the pile long underwear he's got on underneath, perhaps frozen there. But he isn't bleeding to death, so he'll deal with it later.

His hands close on a small first aid kit; antiseptic wipes, gauze, medical tape. He passes them over to Gwen. "Take care of Owen," he says. "I'll be right back."

Gwen's fingers close over his and don't let go. "Where are you going?" she asks, her voice only a bit shaky.

Ianto glances at the green speck on the mountainside again. "I just need to check on something. I won't be long, I promise."

When he looks back at Owen and Gwen, they've seen the body too. Gwen looks pale, and Owen's jaw is set and tight. "Be careful," Owen says, quietly.

"I always am," Ianto replies, but he cannot manage a smile. He gives Gwen's shoulder a squeeze, trying to reassure her, and then sets off, climbing up a small shoulder of rock before setting off on the traverse, that bit of green always just at the corner of his eye.

Some of the sherpas had green down suits, he remembers.

He keeps moving.

The wind lashes at him, numbing his hands in their thin protection, making his fingers feel clumsy and huge. It's difficult to get a good footing in the dry, powdery snow, and he's been panting for breath for so long that his lungs are starting to feel scorched, his throat frozen.

He keeps moving.

There are two bodies, he realizes at last. Two bodies curled in an alcove in the rock, the larger wrapped around the smaller, apparently in a last ditch effort to provide protection from the storm. The large one is in green, the small one is in purple. Their faces are towards the mountains, their backs to the wind, a pack within easy reach of their hands, an empty water bottle on the ledge near them.

They are so still that they cannot be anything but dead.

"Hey!" Ianto shouts, hoping for some sort of startle reflex, hoping to be wrong, even though he knows that if they're still alive, they're far past saving. "You there! Hello! Hello!" They don't move.

He pulls himself into their little hollow, shakes their boots, shouts at them. "Hey! Hey! If you can hear me, move your hands!" When he turns the man in the green suit onto his back, the body goes stiffly, as if frozen into place. Even though he already knows, Ianto keeps trying, stripping off one glove liner to press his fingers to the man's throat, checking for a pulse. The man's skin looks perfectly ordinary, but it's hard, almost like marble, and so cold. There's a thick layer of ice over the man's face; Ianto carefully chips it away with his stiff, unwieldy fingers.

It's one of the sherpas who evacuated Big Pemba. Ianto can't be sure, but he thinks the man's name was Jamling. His eyes are closed, mercifully enough. He could almost be asleep. But he isn't.

If the man in green is Jamling, then the smaller figure, the one in purple...

Ianto goes through his routine again, checking for pulse, chipping the ice away, occasionally stopping to put his hands inside his down suit and warm them up. The sun is rising in the sky by the time Big Pemba's face is uncovered, frozen into a pained grimace. There's no pretending that the boy is only sleeping, not with this. He died. They both died.

He sits with them for a few minutes, in the little shelter they created, their last-ditch bivouac. He doesn't know what happened, but he can guess. Big Pemba collapsed and couldn't be moved. Jamling stayed with him. The third member of their group continued downwards, to Tosh, to get help from the sherpas still waiting at Base Camp. But help never came.

They died.

At least they had each other. At least they weren't alone. It isn't really comforting, but it's all Ianto has.

After a moment's hesitation, he pulls the gloves from Jamling's hands, takes off his own glove liners and stows them in his pockets to give to Owen. Jamling's gloves are cold from two nights in the open on dead hands, but they'll warm.

Owen's right. Ianto needs his hands to get them off the mountain and to safety.

There ought to be an apology for this, for what happened to them, for what Ianto has had to do. But there isn't. He shifts Jamling and Big Pemba, rearranging their frozen limbs until they're laying as he found them, faces turned towards the rock, bodies curled together. Then he pats Jamling's leg, shakes his head, and leaves them to their rest.

His hands are already warmer.

Ianto makes his way back to Camp One, careful step by careful step. Owen and Gwen are there, waiting for him. Owen's face is bandaged, and Gwen is biting her lip. They don't ask him where he went or why. They don't wonder where he got the gloves on his hands. They don't say anything when he gives Owen his own glove liners.

Instead, Gwen hands Ianto a bottle of water. He takes a long pull, the water easing the pain in his throat, then hands it back to her. He closes up his pack, struggles into it, then ropes them all together and leads them down again.

Half an hour later, he hears Owen's voice from above. "Was it just the one body, then?"

Ianto makes sure he's got a good footing when he stops, panting for breath. "No," he says, his voice rough and scratchy. "Two."

"Ah." Owen's tone is almost conversational. Probably he's in shock. Probably they're all in shock. The sun is blazing merrily away, making the slope unstable, the hissing of minor avalanches coming louder, more frequently. They've been lucky so far, but they need to get to safety soon. "Because there's three more, just to the left there."

Ianto doesn't want to look, but he does anyway. He sees a tangle of limbs in colorful down suits, neon green and orange and yellow, bright against the snow. He draws in a deep breath. "Hey!" The effort of shouting tears at his throat, and there's no answering movement. Not even a twitch.

"Tosh was wearing pink," Gwen says, sounding a bit dazed.

Owen takes a few sideways steps, stops when a small torrent of snow cascades from under his foot. "They could still be alive," he says, as if trying to convince himself to move a just a little further.

"They've been there for a while," Ianto points out, his own voice so calm, too calm really. "One night at least, maybe more." But he starts climbing back up anyway, even though the snow is increasingly precarious. "Hey!" he shouts again. No movement, no answering groans.

Owen takes another step, and almost loses his balance, clinging to a small spur of rock for support. "No good," he says, shuffling back to the path Ianto has made for them. "I can't get over there."

Ianto closes his eyes, does a quick risk assessment. "We have to leave them," he says, finally.

Neither Gwen nor Owen argue. They resume their descent, leaving the dead (or dying... no, he can't think like that, not now; he has to think of the team) behind them.

The slope grows gentler, then gentler still. They crawl down slowly, crippled by exhaustion, pausing frequently to catch their breath but never really stopping. None of them say anything. The less attention Ianto has to pay to climbing, the more energy he has to think about it. There are five dead bodies on the slopes of Dhaulagiri. Two sherpas had been left behind to help Tosh maintain Base Camp. Two more were sent down with Big Pemba. If Tosh is still at Base Camp, she's alone. She's been alone for two days.

It's too much to think about, and Ianto feels his mind turn away from it, back to the climb.

Finally, they come around the last large outcropping, and see a small figure in pink waiting for them on the flat ground of Base Camp. Ianto's heart gives a painful lurch, and he imagines that if he had the strength left, he'd run, but he can't. He plods on at the same painful pace, his thighs burning with strain, his lungs scorched and aching, his pulse hammering through him. Step after step after step, and then he's gone as far down as he can, and his eyes are filled with pink, black hair brushing against his face, Tosh clutching at him so hard he wonders if she could break him. She's very strong, Tosh is, stronger than he'd thought. And she's crying; her tears are wet and hot and burning on his cheek.

It takes him a few moments to remember how to lift his arms, to hug her back.

"God, I was so scared," she sobs, clinging even tighter, and he manages a slight squeeze. "I was so scared."

Me too, he thinks, and says aloud "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

She finally lets go, and he stumbles; she catches his arm to put him back on his feet. "You look exhausted," she says, wiping her eyes with her hands. "Owen! What happened?"

"I took a tumble," Owen says, as Tosh flies to him, her gloved hands gently touching the gauze covering his face. "It's all right, Tosh, really."

Numb, moving on automatic, Ianto strips his stolen gloves off and begins untying them from the rope that bound them together: first himself, then Owen, then Gwen. Beneath the ice that's frozen his insides, he can feel the stirrings of loss, too enormous to comprehend. Bodies -- no, people, people he knew -- on the slopes of Dhaulagiri.

"The others aren't coming with you," Tosh says, finally. It isn't a question, but Ianto answers as though it were.

"No. Steve and Scott..." He pauses, gropes for words, finds none. "And Hillary wasn't going to let them go alone. He's a good guide."

Gwen is standing a little away from them, looking up. "You can just see them," she says, pointing. And there they are, visible on the mountain's face, small dots, brightly colored. One small bunch, gathered not far from Camp Two, not really moving. Three more, scattered wide, almost touching the bronze-gold gleam of the artifact.

Ianto's heart stops for a few seconds, then begins to pound, hammering loud and fast like a drumbeat, like a warning. "Move," he croaks, his voice aching and unfamiliar.

None of them budges.

He'd shout, but his throat is too frozen. "Move!" he says again, plucking at Owen's sleeve, and they're moving, unable to do much more than stagger along, tripping over their own feet. There's a short, sharp report, like a gunshot, and Ianto's legs go out from under him, his wounded shoulder connecting with the hard ice first, sending a blaze of pain through him, making him cry out. Someone tumbles on top of him, arms spread out as if to protect him.

"The arti fact," Tosh says, breathless, her voice still shaking with tears.

There's a rumble and roar like a tidal wave, as if half the mountain has broken away. Ianto pushes up, expecting to see death sweeping down over them, and the arms around him tighten. It's Gwen, pressed against him; Owen and Tosh crouch nearby, Owen coughing convulsively as they watch a wall of snow sweep with lethal speed and strength down the slope, crushing the eastern half of the camp, leaving them untouched, huddled together.

The last of his strength burnt up, Ianto's arms give out, and he collapses face first on the ground.

"Shit," Owen says, rather eloquently. "Gwen, get off the poor bastard, yeah?"

Then surprisingly gentle hands are pulling him up, tugging the pack off his shoulders, and he hisses as the strap goes down his injured arm. "He's bleeding," Gwen says.

Tosh grunts. "Christ, what's in this pack?"

"Stubborn Welsh bastard," Owen says, helping Gwen lift Ianto into a kneeling position. His snow goggles are pulled off, and Owen's face fills Ianto's vision. Fingers pry Ianto's eyes wide open, Owen peering at him intently. "Wouldn't let us carry anything." Owen draws back, raising an arm to his face to muffle a coughing spasm. When it's done, he takes a shaky breath and admits, "Granted, I'm in shit shape at this point, but still."

Tosh pulls the pack onto her own back with surprising ease. She folds her arms and looks down at them, Gwen holding Ianto up, Owen with one hand clutching his side, still coughing slightly. "I think the mess tent is still standing," she says, after a few seconds, and reaches out a hand to pull Owen to his feet.

Gwen tries to pick Ianto up, and he tries to stand, but it isn't working. Then Tosh is pulling Ianto's arm around her shoulders, and even with the pack, she's able to help Gwen get him to his feet. He stands for a moment, legs wobbly, head spinning with a thousand things, and looks back up at the face of Dhaulagiri. There's no more bronze glint, no more brightly colored specks crawling around. Just a few patches of white where the snow still clings, and lots of black, ice-covered rock. "They were all up there," he says, very quietly.

He can feel Tosh's shoulders rise and fall under his arm, as she takes a deep breath. "There's nothing you can do anymore," she says, quietly. Then she and Gwen are dragging him towards the mess tent, and he can only stumble along between them.

In the tent, Ianto is dumped unceremoniously on a bench, his body seemingly beyond his control, and all he can think is that when you see an avalanche, you're supposed to start the rescue immediately, but he can't make his arms or legs work. Owen collapses across from him, coughing, coughing, and Gwen is practically grey with exhaustion. There's no one else to call. There is no one else. Just them.

Tosh kneels at his feet and strips his crampons off, then his boots. Her hands are barely shaking.

"I'm sorry, Tosh," he says again, although he isn't exactly sure why.

She looks at him, brushes a strand of black hair out of her eyes. "Don't be," she says, and her voice is very crisp now, very businesslike, as it always is when she's suppressing strong emotions. "You brought them back. Lean on me, now." He rests his forearms on her shoulders and lets her unzip his down suit, lets her manipulate his useless limbs, one arm around his waist as she pulls his arms from the sleeves, pushes the suit down his torso, sits him back down on the bench and tugs the suit off his legs.

He lets out a hiss as her hands find the long cut Owen's crampons left on his arm, gently teasing the blood-soaked fabric of his long underwear away from the skin. "That's going to need stitches," she says.

Gwen disappears from Ianto's line of sight, reappears moments later with a bowl of water and a washcloth. "You're prepared," Gwen says, quietly.

"I was expecting casualties; I just didn't know who they'd be," Tosh replies. She pulls Ianto's top off, trying to be gentle, but the fabric is stuck to his skin, and he flinches when she yanks it free. Then Tosh is looking at him, looking hard, and she shakes her head. "You've got thin," she says, at last.

"So have you," Ianto replies, and he isn't lying. Tosh's cheekbones protrude more than ever, and her jaw is very sharp.

Tosh manages a smile. "You never had any to spare." The cloth dabs at his arm, warm and wet and soothing, wiping away the blood. "Keep this up and you'll look like Owen."

"I'm still in the room, you know," Owen protests, feebly, then coughs for a long time. "And I'm wiry."

"You're a skinny bastard," Ianto says, as though Owen's voice isn't shaking, as though this were completely normal. Gwen hands Tosh a long, curved needle, and Ianto closes his eyes. "And really, Tosh should be fussing over you, not me." He bites the inside corner of his lip and holds absolutely still as the needle goes in, the thread pulling through his skin, pulling tight.

"And I'm a doctor, and can say with absolute certainty that you need the fussing more than I do right now, so let the woman work," Owen says.

Ianto wants to say something more, but all his cleverness has gone away. The needle goes in and out, and the thread pulls through, tightening, pulling him together again. He doesn't move as he's stitched up; doesn't open his eyes until Tosh strokes the cloth down his arm and says, "There. All done." She musters another smile for him, then turns to Owen.

Gwen is carefully peeling the bandages away from Owen's face, and he isn't even swearing at her, though it must hurt like hell. The scrapes are sticky and raw-looking; Owen wasn't exactly pretty before, but he looks dreadful now. Tosh crosses to them, swats Gwen's hands away gently. "Sit down. You look exhausted."

"I am," Gwen admits, but crosses over to the stove instead, and busies herself making tea.

Ianto forces himself to sit up a bit, move his arms and legs, attempt to get comfortable although comfort seems impossible at the moment. Everything hurts; every muscle burns; his thighs ache from breaking trail through the snow; his shoulders are strained from the impromptu self-arrest he performed when Owen fell; the small of his back complains of the too-heavy pack he forced himself to carry. He doesn't mind; every twinge and sting distracts from the hollow agony of bodies on the mountain. So many. "We found the sherpas," he says at last. "I'm sorry, Tosh."

Her back stiffens slightly, but she doesn't stop picking bits of scree from Owen's face. "It was snowing so hard," she says, her voice still firm. "But I had to let them try. I knew by morning that they weren't ever going to come down."

Two days alone at Base Camp, no word from any of them, alone with the blizzard howling around her. Ianto tries to imagine it, but his mind just turns away. "I'm sorry," he says again.

Tosh turns and looks at him, one eyebrow up, her face almost daunting. "Ianto," she says, sternly. "Stop apologizing."

Gwen emerges from behind the stove with mugs of tea; she hands one to Ianto and another to Owen, and sets Tosh's near her, but not so near that Tosh could knock it down. Her own mug clutched in both hands, like a child's, she stares into the steam. "It blew up. The artifact blew up."

"That looks to be about the size of it, yeah," Owen says, but he can't quite manage the nonchalant tone he's striving for.

"It was a trap. Saxon meant to kill us," Gwen says. "Why?"

Ianto manages to lift the mug to his lips, cherishes the warmth of it. "No idea. We'll have to ask him when we get back."

It's hitting him, though, really hitting him. They were meant to die. Thirteen people are dead, dead or at least dying. Nothing he could do to save them, nothing he could do to stop it happening. Jamling's body curled around Big Pemba's, the two of them freezing to death on the mountain, exposed to the storm, no hope of rescue...

"We can't stay here," Gwen says, as Tosh smooths a new bandage over Owen's battered face. "What if he finds out? He'll be looking for us."

Tosh pulls away from Owen, picks up her mug of tea, curls her fingers around it. "Sit down, Gwen. We can't go anywhere right now. The three of you need to rest."

"But --" Gwen's starting to look a bit panicky, her eyes going huge, her hands shaking.

"Sit down, Gwen," Ianto says, and much to his surprise, she does so, collapsing next to him. "Tosh is right. We're in no fit state to go anywhere."

"You're in no fit state to go anywhere," Owen says, an undertone of worry apparent in his voice.

Ianto raises his eyebrow. "Neither are you."

Owen touches his face, then lets his hand drift down to his ribs. "Fair point."

"We have to rest. We have to reorganize. If we panic now..." Ianto shakes his head.

Tosh frowns at all of them equally, her arms folded. "Food first," she says, decisively. "Then the three of you are going to get some sleep. No arguing."

"We're in your hands," Owen says, and closes his eyes.

5 October 2008

Ianto can only stand and stare at the enormous mound of fresh snow that's buried the eastern side of Base Camp. There's no way they'll be able to get to anything underneath it. All of their comm equipment, all the tech they brought with them, most of their supplies... all gone.

Nor will they be able to cross the snow, to find the path that brought them here. They'll have to find another way home.

Ianto spots a tiny bit of gold, picks it up. It's plastic. Harold Saxon's mysterious artifact, the one they flew halfway around the world for, the one they got so obsessed with, the one that so many people died for... Cheap plastic. Like a child's toy. A shiny trinket to lure them in close enough to be killed.

It doesn't make sense, and Ianto wonders if he'll ever understand any of it. He wouldn't mind the chance to ask why, though. He wouldn't mind a chance to get his hands on Harold Saxon and get an explanation, something, anything, any reason why thirteen people had to die.

Not far from the bit of gold plastic is a scrap of fabric. Red fabric. Probably from Steve's down suit. Steve would have been nearest to the artifact, of course, the first to touch it. Steve was Saxon's creature, through and through. He never had a chance to say no. Ianto wonders absently what Steve might have been like in his real life, if he'd had a family, a girlfriend or a boyfriend, any children. He wasn't any older than the rest of them; probably his parents are still alive. Probably they'll mourn him now that he's gone.

Ianto's gaze skims the surface of the snow. It's clean, white, unblemished, like a shroud. Who was with Steve at that last moment? Not Scott, of course. Ianto remembers the small clump of people motionless on the face of the mountain, remembers Scott's slurred speech and Owen's dire predictions. At some point during the climb, Scott must have collapsed for good. Steve stepped over him and kept going, dragging some of the sherpas with him. Tenzing would have stayed behind. Hillary would have, too. They would have tried to keep Scott alive.

They were probably still trying when the mountain fell on top of them.

Ianto's eyes blur with tears, and he blinks them away.

Then there's someone next to him, a small someone in a pink down suit. Her arm slips around his waist, and he leans on her a little bit, because he knows how strong she is now. "The first rule of avalanche rescue is that you don't wait," he says, trying to keep his voice from shaking. "There's a 92% chance of survival if you can pull them out within fifteen minutes. After half an hour it's down to 30%. After two hours..."

Tosh squeezes him a little bit tighter. "There wasn't anything you could have done. Even if you'd had the strength, you'd never have gotten to them in time."

"We should never have come here," he says, quietly.

Tosh turns him round to face her, pulls his face down so he can't look away from her eyes. "But we are here, Ianto," she says. "And we need you to get us home. You promised."

She's right. Of course she's right. So he forces the grief and the guilt and the terror back down, and manages a shaky smile. "And I keep my promises, Tosh."

It earns him a smile back, a smile that's enough to keep him going for another day at least. "I know you do." Tosh pulls him down to kiss his forehead, then takes his arm and leads him back to the mess tent.

*

That night, Ianto gets out his stack of trekking maps, the souvenirs he grabbed in Pokhara, long before any of them knew what they were getting into. They're cheap and flimsy, but they're still maps. He sorts through them, finally pulling one out that says "Dhaulagiri Circuit." There's a path marked on it, a path that might just get them home after all. Out to the west, down the glacier’s other edge and through Italian Base Camp, roughly following the line of the river.

Ianto traces the path with his finger. There aren't any nearby villages. The nearest, a dot on the map labelled "Muri," has to be at least four or five days' journey away. Everything before that is probably wild country, faint trails. It’s been years since Ianto’s had to navigate through unknown territory, and he’s never had to do it in quite these circumstances, but there isn’t any choice.

It’s funny, really. All that alien tech back at the Hub, guns and organic computers and a sodding pterodactyl, and right now, they’re forced to rely on a compass and a cheap map. Soon they’ll be starting fires by rubbing two sticks together and making tools out of bits of stone.

Ianto drops his head and takes a few deep breaths, because he knows he’s getting hysterical again, and he really doesn’t have the time for that sort of nonsense. Tosh is right; like it or not, it’s up to him to get them back to safety.

He breathes and breathes until finally, he can concentrate on the map again, tracing the route with his fingers. The good news is that from now on, they’ll be moving down and not up. There isn’t any need to acclimatize, so they can walk for longer. They can walk for as long as their feet will carry them.

But they've spent weeks in the mountains, suffering the effects of high altitude. He's not sure they have the strength left for a long trek And with Owen's cough to think about, the pain that's still plaguing him....

Then, too, there isn’t much food, nor is there much fuel. Maybe a week’s worth, maybe less. Nor can they be sure if there are many water sources along the route.

But if there are any, Ianto's still got his water purification tablets. That has to count for something.

If they stick to one tent, it’ll free up room to carry other things, medicine, food, more water, fuel. Their combined body heat might allow them to conserve the stove for cooking and boiling water. It’ll be a tight fit, but right now, he’s not sure any of them are in a mood to complain.

He looks up from his map, sees the tangle of sleeping bags in the center of the tent, the way the others have crowded together in their sleep, seeking warmth and comfort. No, he doesn’t think any of them are going to complain at all about being cozy.

Ianto folds the map up and sighs. He doesn’t feel prepared at all for this, but staring at the map isn’t going to help him, and he needs the sleep. They start moving tomorrow. Away from the mountain, back towards home. Home.

He pulls his sleeping bag a little bit closer to Gwen’s, snuggles in, and tries to sleep.

(The title of this chapter was inspired by the Belay.)