Words, Words, Words

Cheer Up, Weepy! It's the Torchwood Fluff Meme!

Sun, 06 Dec 2009 14:33:31 GMT

Want to read/write/rec some fic that's sugar-sweet and guaranteed to cause warm and fluffy feelings? This, my friends, is the meme for you. Whether you want romance, friendship, or just your favorite character buried in fluffy feel-good rabbits from the planet MakeUpAName, it's all here. If it's adorable, it's ours.

The Rules are:

1. No bashing. No bashing characters, no bashing kinks, no bashing each other. This is fluff. Keep it fluffy.

2. Generally speaking, I'd prefer people write fics in the comments, as long as the rating is PG-13 or lower. Put the title (if you have one), rating, and pairing/characters in the comment title. You might want to specify whether you're writing romance, friendship, teamfic, or... you know, whatever. If your fic extends beyond the allowable character limit for a comment, reply to yourself and keep it going.

3. You are welcome to write fic on your own journal and link it here, if you're more comfortable doing that. You can also rec someone else's fic. Include a header with pairings, rating, any necessary warnings, and a brief summary when you post.

4. Keep the content on this post PG-13 or under. Can smut be fluffy? Sure. So can kink. So can hurt/comfort. I'm not going to block any of those from the meme. However. If a fic is R or NC-17, or contains content that could be triggering/squicky, please post it on your own journal and link it here, so that people have a chance to read the header and the warnings before getting deeply into the fic. We're operating under safe space rules here.

4. Don't want people to realize you're really a huge softy underneath your snarky, callous persona? Anons are welcome!

This is a non-prompt meme; write what you want, rec what you think others should read, and don't worry about the rest. For those who'd like the ability to request fics, why not try tw_ficrequests? Or ask someone nicely. You never know.

Enough rules. Let the love begin!

Fic: The High Cost of Living

Mon, 30 Nov 2009 12:48:00 GMT

Title: Season of Mists
Author: lookninjas aka ninjasnano
Character/Pairing(s): Ianto, Jack, Gwen, Archie, Dr. Simon Tau, Dr. Derrial Shepherd
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Spoilers for Children of Earth. Brief, somewhat incoherent descriptions of violence, captivity, and trauma.

Disclaimer: I do not own copyright to Torchwood, Dr. Who, or Neil Gaiman's the Sandman, and make no claim to them. This story is for entertainment only, and I make no profit from this.

Author's Note(s): This story takes place during the events of Season of Mists, picking up at the end of Part IV, and stopping not long before the epilogue. If you have not read that story, this one will make absolutely no sense at all.

Summary: Ianto pretends that Jack and Gwen are real so that he doesn't have to face up to the truth.

For a few moments, he lets himself drift, eyes closed, just feeling: Jack on his right side, a strong arm bracing him, a shoulder to lean on; Gwen on his left, pressed to him like he'll melt into smoke if she doesn't hold him tightly, so close he can smell cordite and sulfur in her hair. Neither of them are real, of course; he lost track of what was real long ago, in that world of blinding lights and constant pain and doctors with blood on their white coats, or on the ship with its metal walls and soft groans and occasional cries of despair, or perhaps in London, or perhaps even further back. It is entirely possible that he himself is not real. Melting into smoke.

It is enough at this moment to pretend: that Jack is real enough to steady him, that Gwen is close enough for him to hold onto her and kiss her hair. Everything hurts, these days; everything is too bright, too cold, too distant. He has earned this dimly-lit dream.

(somewhere, of course, he knows the truth: yes, this is real. he is free. it all happened. he knows this, and he knows what it means. if this is real, everything that has come before it -- the ship, the hospital, the days he lived twice and the deaths he survived, so many, too many -- is real as well. he knows that, and so he chooses not to face it. not yet.)

But Gwen is slipping, in some strange way; he is holding her up, and not the other way around, and when he shifts his hand to support her better, his fingers brush her hip, then fall still. Dried blood on the soft fabric. He opens his eyes; it's very dark in here, and his eyes can't seem to adjust, but he can still see the gauze on her forehead. One wound on her forehead, another here on her hip. "Gwen," he says, not sure what else to say.

"Just a graze," she says again, with that classic smile, the everything is all right smile. It's not as reassuring as it used to be, and he can't be sure if that's him or if it's her or maybe just that it's so dark in here. "I've had worse."

"Gwen," he says again, still at such a loss and suddenly somehow terrified, his heart picking up pace -- running down the corridor and he hasn't run for so long, isn't used to it, can barely breathe and then the snap and the crack and Gwen in front of him half-turning from the impact lifting her off her feet and then she's falling and her body hits the metal grating of the floor and her eyes don't close but that doesn't mean she isn't dead -- He tries to pull away from Jack, to help lower Gwen to the cot, but he's not used to moving, to balancing his own weight. In trying to help Gwen, he stumbles into her, and only Jack's broad hands pulling at Ianto and Archie's small frame moving quickly to steady Gwen keep them from falling into a tangled heap on the floor.

Jack's arms wrap around Ianto, one across his chest, the other around his waist, as Archie gently lowers Gwen to the cot. Ianto knows that he's being restrained, but for once, he doesn't seem to mind, or feel the need to fight. For once, it seems appropriate to simply relax into it. "Ianto's right, Miss Cooper," Archie says; Gwen tries to sit up, but he pushes her back easily. Gwen is never easy to push back. Ianto fumbles for Jack's hands, finds them, and closes his fingers tight around them. "You've done looking after everyone for now. Time to be looked after yourself. And not by you, Dr. Tau."

Ianto's doctor, who was attempting to shift himself closer to the cot, stops in his tracks. Ianto closes his eyes, repeats the name softly to himself. Dr. Tau. All his time in that white world, the dark-haired doctor was his one constant, the only person he felt he could reasonably trust to not put a bullet in his head or poison him or carve off his fingers in the name of science. He'd never had so much of a surname to call the man by until this moment. Dr. Tau.

"You wanted to see that Ianto would wake up all right. And you have." Archie is still staring Dr. Tau down, his frame small and hunched and frail and completely unyielding. "Now it's time you went to hospital. Captain Hart as well, assuming he can be moved."

Ianto blinks, caught by the familiar name -- alarms going off all around him, that hideous robotic voice announcing that the Facility has been breached, the Facility has been breached, and he is surrounded by black-clad bodies, can't see what's happening no matter how he strains against his restraint, but he can hear the intruder speaking, "My goodness. There are a lot of you, aren't there?" and he almost laughs because honestly, who would have thought -- and Jack squeezes his hands lightly, murmurs in his ear. "I'll explain it all later." Before Ianto can even ask, or even ask himself if he honestly wants to know what happened.

(even though he never did know when to leave it well enough alone.)

It occurs to Ianto, then, that they are all falling apart. Gwen is wounded, and his doctor -- Dr. Tau -- needs a doctor, and as sturdy as Jack is, he is barely holding himself together. Ianto knows that he should do something about this, because that is who he is; he's the one who keeps other people from falling apart. He steps forward (fingers of his right hand still intertwined with Jack's), says "I'll--" but then stops, because he isn't sure what he can do. Could he drive them? It's been a long time since he's worked a clutch, and he's not sure where they are or how he'd find his way. He's no battlefield medic, not like Jack or even Gwen. He could possibly make tea, but its curative powers fail with bullet wounds. Even in this dream, this fantasy of rescue, he is completely helpless.

(which, of course, is part of how he knows that it's real.)

Fortunately, a man -- dark-skinned, bushy white hair tied tightly behind his head -- choose this moment to step into the room, clearing his throat. "Sorry to interrupt, but I --" the man says, and clears his throat again. He seems to be trying to look at Archie, but his eyes keep flickering back to Ianto. "We can move Captain Hart. In fact, I think it's best he go sooner, rather than later. You too, Simon."

Ianto's doctor -- Simon Tau -- shifts slightly, frowning. One of his hands is clutching at his left thigh. Blood is starting to seep through the towel wrapped around his waist. "Gwen," he says, looking down at her. Gwen's eyes keep fluttering closed, opening again for just a moment. "And Andy -- I should really --"

Ianto twitches slightly at the sound of Andy's name -- not recognizing him at first, black uniform and gun in his hands, and his face is harder now than it was before, but then there's the uneasiness, the fear, and it's Andy again -- and the dark-skinned man looks at him, not Dr. Simon Tau, when he speaks again. "Andy's fine." The man's voice is steady enough, but he looks at Ianto with that strange mix of awe and fear that Ianto doesn't think he'll ever get used to. "I've cleaned him up, and he's resting." His gaze shifts over, rests on Jack. "He'll be fine," he says again, and Jack's hand squeezes Ianto's, reassuring.

"And I can look after Miss Cooper," Archie says. "Just because Two is a bit different from the rest of you lot doesn't mean I haven't seen someone shot before."

With a sigh, Dr. Simon Tau attempts to push himself up from his chair, but doesn't even make it halfway before he's sinking down again, pale. "I don't think I can walk anymore," he says, quietly.

"I'll help," Ianto says, finally breaking free of Jack's hold. He is steadier on his feet now, and does not embarrass himself with his first few steps. He doesn't wish to lose this chance to finally be useful. "I'll help you."

The dark-skinned man looks at Jack. "It'll be easier to get Captain Hart down to the car with two of us," he points out.

Jack still watches Ianto cross around the bed to Dr. Simon Tau's chair before he finally, reluctantly, lets the dark-skinned man lead him out of the room.

Ianto crouches next to Dr. Simon Tau's chair, wraps one of the man's arms around his shoulders, but doesn't stand. Gwen is focused on him, her eyes clear, and she reaches out to touch his face. "Promise you'll come back?" she asks, just sleepy enough for it to make her honest.

Ianto isn't sleepy, but he is crazy, and there's no point in lying to his delusions (even if he knows that she is real, they are real, everything is real). "Will you still be here?" he asks, and she nods, smiling, her eyes slipping shut. "Then I'll come back."

It is difficult to stand; he's used to being helped down off a bed, not raising himself from a crouch, and it's harder with Simon's weight on his shoulders (he supposes first names are appropriate, as they've known each other so long), but he manages it. Walking is harder still; he's used to the drugs altering his perceptions, skewing his balance, and has to concentrate not to correct things which no longer need correction. But he will manage this as well. Each step requires concentration and thought, and by the time he reaches the living room, Jack and the dark-skinned man are already hurrying past with a sheet stretched between them as a sort of makeshift litter. Ianto can only see a hand, draped over the side, blood drying dark brown on the pale skin.

"He'll be all right," Simon says, quietly.

Ianto blinks. He is not at all sure what to say to this. It is difficult to imagine Captain John Hart risking his life for anyone, let alone Ianto Jones. "Did you contact him?" he asks, leading them slowly to the doorway. There are stairs leading down; they've slowed Jack and the dark-skinned man down considerably. It will be worse for him, he knows. "Bring him into this?"

"I couldn't find him," Simon says. He clings to Ianto, and Ianto leans on the wall, and they make it down the first few steps in excruciating slow motion. "He found me. I couldn't..." Another step. "I wouldn't have known where to start, if not for him."

He'll have to consider this later, when he's not trying to cope with each downward step, with the heavy weight of the injured man leaning on him for support. "I never even asked your name," Ianto murmurs, after navigating a particularly grueling turn.

"It's all right," Simon says. Ianto thinks the man might have laughed, if he'd been capable of drawing enough breath for it. Simon is weakening. Ianto hopes that they aren't too many stairs left to climb. "I couldn't have told you if you had."

"But you saved me." It is important to know these things: to know who should take the credit, to whom the debt is owed.

"I brought you to the Project in the first place."

"You still saved me," Ianto insists. The landing is only five steps below them. They will make it, if he is careful.

Another sound that might have been a laugh, had there been more strength behind it. "You sound like Gwen."

It's the accent," Ianto mutters, his feet finally hitting the bottom of the stairs and seeming to stick there. The door is wide open in front of them, dim grey light pouring in, and Ianto cannot move. It's been so long since he was outside. Anything could be out there. Anything at all.

"Go on," Simon says, quietly.

After a few deep breaths -- the air is so different, dirty, no tang of antiseptic -- he does. His eyes had only just adjusted to the dimness, and now he's squinting. There are cars on the street, a battered ambulance, a blue police box. He's not sure where to take Simon. There are so many buildings, and all of them are so tall. The world is so much larger than he remembers.

Jack and the dark-skinned man are waiting for him -- the dark-skinned man takes Simon's weight off of Ianto's shoulders and transfers him into one of the cars while Jack watches. It looks a bit like Ianto's old Audi. It's a coincidence, but reassuring all the same. Ianto wonders who the dark-skinned man is, if he'll see him again, if he'll learn his name. The man seems practical, reliable. Ianto thinks he might learn to like him. "I'll call you as soon as I can," the dark-skinned man says. He nods at the crippled ambulance just up the street; the front is battered, dented, and scratched; there are bullet holes in the side that Ianto can see, and presumably more on the rest of it. It's as if the others had to fight a war to free him. Perhaps they did. "You should take care of that before it attracts too much attention."

Jack nods to him, calls out "Thank you." He has slipped, somehow, imperceptably behind Ianto's shoulders, and is now resting a hand on the small of Ianto's back. Ianto finds it reassuring, but realizes that it's really for Jack's benefit more than his, to prove that Ianto is here, and real, and solid to Jack's touch.

Jack, after all, saw Ianto die.

(he hears him sometimes, waking up from death, that strange sleep. "don't go. ianto, don't go. don't leave me. please." he knows, of course, that jack doesn't bring him back. he knows that he died long before thames house. jack has nothing to do with it. but the memory takes the sting out of resurrection -- the woman in red may be the one pulling him back, but jack is the reason he lives)

Ianto wonders how long he's been dead. It probably isn't a very good time to ask.

The car drives away in a cloud of exhaust and Ianto breathes it in, breathes it all in: car exhaust in the damp air, the smell of someone's cigarettes lingering in the damp air, sausage frying nearby. Meat and smoke, all mingled.

-- he wakes up and doesn't know where he is, only that Gwen's body is in his lap and there is sand beneath him, hot and dry, and the air is hot and dry and smells of burning flesh and when he opens his eyes, he sees the flames, and when he closes them again he can hear the screaming and the world is burning and everyone he has ever loved is dead and Jack is still screaming somewhere on that ship and Ianto is still nothing more than their freak and he cannot save Jack or Gwen and he cannot stop the world burning and people dying and --

The weight of it drives him to his knees, retching, and even as he heaves, he is acutely aware of the sidewalk gritty under his palms and the chilly damp of the air and the warmth of Jack's hand stroking in circles over his back, the gentleness of Jack's voice murmuring reassurance in his ear. A breeze blows a bit of paper down the street. Not far away, cars are driving down busy streets; someone is washing their dishes. The world is so large, and there is so much in it, and Ianto is aware of it all, because it is all real. Everything is real. Everything that has happened, the bits he wishes he could forget, the bits that should never have happened, even the bits that couldn't have happened. All of it is real.

He doesn't know what to do about that.

When the spasm passes, when tense muscles relax and he can finally breathe again, he scoots around on his knees until he's facing Jack. Jack almost looks the same as he used to, but can't quite manage it -- the circles under his eyes are darker, the mouth no longer on the verge of smiling. He looks worried, and tired, and suspicious, and old. None of that can stop Ianto laying a hand on Jack's cheek and asking "Is it really you?" because he knows that yes, it really is him.

Jack mirrors the gesture, his fingers ruffling Ianto's beard. "I could ask you the same." He tries for glib, sounds heartbroken instead. For once, they've both run out of jokes.

Ianto rubs his thumb up along Jack's cheekbone, and Jack closes his eyes. It's familiar, and reassuring. Jack still knows his touch. "I don't know what to do," he admits, and watches Jack's face fall.

"Ianto... Believe me... I would never..."

Start and stop, Jack's voice choking, and all Ianto can do is pull him in by the back of the neck until their foreheads are pressed together, hold him there with his eyes tight shut. "It's not your fault," Ianto says softly. "It's not your fault."

Even if it was, it wouldn't matter. Even if there had been a choice, if it had been up to Ianto, he doesn't think it would have gone any differently. He doesn't know who he is anymore, but he does, at least, know that.

don't go. don't leave me. please.

"You came back," Jack says, quietly. "No one comes back. Ever."

"I know," Ianto says.

They pull back a bit -- Ianto's hand on Jack's shoulder, Jack's on Ianto's knee, and just look at each other for a long time, kneeling at the side of the road, flats looming overhead, the blue police box on the corner standing guard. "I don't even know where I am," Ianto says, finally. "I don't know who--" But that last part is something he cannot admit. Not yet.

"You're Ianto," Jack says, quietly. "It hasn't changed. Believe me, Ianto, it hasn't." His eyes are very serious, almost terrifyingly sincere, and if anyone would know about these things, it's Jack. Everything that Ianto has been through, Jack has too. There is a comfort in that, at least. "Does the rest of it really matter?"

Ianto lets his hand fall down onto Jack's. He thinks a bit before answering. It does matter, or rather it will. The facts are important, the practicalities need to be addressed, and although these things are not in Jack's nature, they are in Ianto's. The rest of it matters. But maybe not right now. "I could use a glass of water," he says. His mouth tastes like bile. "And I'd like to see Gwen again. And Andy. I need to --"

Jack pulls Ianto to his feet without waiting for him to finish, and Ianto falls silent, wrapping his arm around Jack's waist and just leaning there, on that solidity. The world is larger than he remembers, and there's things in it that should never have been, things that have happened that ought to be impossible. So many things that he will have to learn how to deal with, how to accept, how to let go. But Gwen and Andy are safe, and Jack is there, solid, and at least he isn't alone anymore. It's a start.

He starts off leaning on Jack. But by the time they're back in the building, making their way slowly up the stairs, they're both leaning on each other.

Note: This was written in something of a hurry, as an attempt to A) figure out some blurry details in this odd little AU of mine, B) try to find Ianto's voice again after everything I've put him through, and C) make myself feel a bit better after Season of Mists turned out so bleak. I wound up liking it well enough to post, so I did, but I realize it's probably not for all tastes. Criticism is (as always, but particularly with such a giant work-in-progress as this) very much welcome.

Season of Mists: Master Post

Wed, 18 Nov 2009 14:35:25 GMT

Title: Season of Mists
Author: lookninjas aka ninjasnano
Beta(s): tearoseandhoney, ambiguous_opal
Artist/Fanmixer: enkanowen

Character/Pairing(s): Gwen, Rhys, Baby Eddie, Andy, John Hart, Jack Harkness, Archie (Torchwood Two), Dr. Simon Tau (OC), Dr. Derrial Shepherd (OC), Dream of the Endless, the Doctor (Eleventh), a Time Agent, a Mysterious Woman in Red, and Ianto Jones.
Rating: R
Word Count: 38,291
Warnings: Spoilers for Children of Earth. Character death, experimenting on human subjects, briefly and clinically described torture.

Disclaimer: I do not own copyright to Torchwood, Dr. Who, or Neil Gaiman's the Sandman, and make no claim to them. This story is for entertainment only, and I make no profit from this. Also, I stole one line of dialogue from Firefly. You would've too.

Author's Note(s): Although this story references (and borrows a character from) Neil Gaiman's the Sandman, you don't need to be at all familiar with Sandman canon to understand the story. It would help, however, to have seen Dr. Who's The Sound of Drums and Last of the Time Lords.

Summary: Two years after the events at Thames House, Captain John Hart swaggers back into Gwen's life, dragging an unwilling Jack Harkness with him. Captain Hart claims to have found someone, someone that Jack and Gwen both believed they'd lost, and needs their help to save him. But how are they supposed to trust him? And why is Gwen having the same dream night after night after night?

Link to Fic:

Part One: Absent Friends

Part Two: Lost Loves

Part Three: Old Gods

Part Four: The Season of Mists

Epilogue: Give the Devil His Due

Link to Art/Mix: Check out the gorgeously creepy art by enkanowen here

Here's to absent friends, lost loves, old gods, and the season of mists; and may each and every one of us always give the devil his due.
- Sir Robert Gadling

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

Tue, 29 Sep 2009 11:03:44 GMT

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)

Mon, 24 Aug 2009 00:28:04 GMT

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

Sat, 22 Aug 2009 03:54:06 GMT

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

Wed, 20 May 2009 01:14:45 GMT

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

Tue, 20 May 2008 02:00:17 GMT

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

Mon, 19 May 2008 15:12:54 GMT

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!

Fri, 02 May 2008 15:47:26 GMT

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

Fri, 02 May 2008 15:06:32 GMT

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

Fri, 02 May 2008 14:39:30 GMT

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

Mon, 14 Apr 2008 11:14:05 GMT

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

Sat, 12 Apr 2008 15:53:38 GMT

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

Thu, 10 Apr 2008 11:08:18 GMT

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

Fri, 04 Apr 2008 03:03:23 GMT

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

Mon, 10 Mar 2008 11:29:13 GMT

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

Sun, 09 Mar 2008 12:01:45 GMT

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

Mon, 18 Feb 2008 01:42:48 GMT

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

Sun, 17 Feb 2008 03:01:26 GMT

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

Wed, 13 Feb 2008 02:03:33 GMT

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"

Thu, 07 Feb 2008 21:14:47 GMT

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

Fri, 25 Jan 2008 14:30:27 GMT

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

Mon, 21 Jan 2008 23:22:38 GMT

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

Tue, 06 Nov 2007 01:59:03 GMT

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.