Torchwood, fic: dark_fest

[bluecastle]

Title: They Who Sit in Darkness
Author: valancy_joy 
Fandom: Torchwood
Characters/Pairing: Ianto, Jack, mentions of team

Rating: R
Word Count: 2500
Warnings: Dark themes. The usual sorts of trauma one finds when Torchwood is involved.
Prompt: "After the events of Cyberwoman, Ianto returns to Torchwood 3 in order to bide his time and get his revenge."

Notes: This is and isn’t the Torchwood we saw on screen, so consider this an AU.

 

 

"And gifts of gold are dimmed by greater things,--
The Bread in pity shared, the Life laid down
That they who sit in darkness may be free."

-- Thomas S. Jones, Jr.

 

Ianto sat alone in the Hub, fingers busy at the keyboard of Jack’s computer as the sounds of the team’s mission filtered through his earpiece. Screams and sobbing echoed in his mind and in his ear as he idly brushed a few stray rose petals off the desk into the trash can.

 

Back only a couple of days, he marveled at how easily he had slipped back into this Torchwood.

Even after all that had transpired, being here was still better than the alternative.

So while he knew he was being watched, by computers and cameras and co-workers, he was confident that the day would come when the opportunity he was looking for would present itself. And on that day, Ianto Jones vowed, he would be ready to act.

“Those that want friends to open themselves unto are cannibals of their own hearts.” -- Francis Bacon, Sr. 

He had hardly eaten in days. Hadn't thought about food since the last disastrous attempt to eat the Meat Feast pizza that-twat-Owen had ordered late one night.

But finding nothing of any substance inside when he dragged himself to his fridge, he pulled on a ratty jumper and stumbled a few blocks over to the chippy. Bolted his fish, licking his fingers clean of the grease. Sat there, hunched over on his stool at the small counter in front of the window, picking at his chips. The sting of the salt and vinegar on his split lip brought unwanted tears to his eyes.

"Fuck."

 

A wave of anger and acrimony burned through him, stemming the tears that threatened to fall as he dumped his chips in the bin and set out through the shadowy streets of Cardiff.

 

It would have been so much easier if that trip to the Beacons had ended his life. But once again, Jack, that flash bastard, had burst in and given him back a life he didn't know what to do with, leaving him to suffer alone this singular, secretive, solitary existence.

 

He wandered aimlessly for a while, but ended up, almost by habit, near the Plass, gazing out over the bay. He dug into his pockets and pulled out his cigarettes and lighter.

"I didn't know you smoked," Jack said, emerging from the shadows as Ianto took another deep drag of his cigarette, blinking a bit as the breeze blew the smoke into his eyes.

"I think we've established there's a lot of things about me you don't know," Ianto said, walking away from Jack, who stood watching him, hands deep in his greatcoat pockets. 

Halfway down the pier, Ianto turned to look back at Jack. There were questions he wanted to ask, but he remained silent and continued on his way.

Jack caught up to Ianto at the top of the steps while they stood waiting for some package-laden tourists to make their way down to the water taxi. Ianto tossed his cigarette butt over the rail and went to light a second one. His shaky hands could not be attributed entirely to the chilly weather.

"Ianto..." Jack said, reaching out, fingertips just brushing the sleeve of the ratty jumper when Ianto pulled away, and started across the pavement.

Jack, finally catching hold of Ianto's arm, dragged him into the doorway of a mostly deserted pizza shop. "Dammit, Ianto, just stop!"

There was a long silence before Ianto turned and stared into the shop window with it's gleaming neon sign.  Jack heard an fervent "I won't," as Ianto took another steadying drag on his cigarette.

"Won't what?" Jack asked softly as he stepped closer to Ianto, searching for something in the face reflected in the window.

"Stop," Ianto said, his eyes sliding shut, the single word both a confession and a warning, truth and fiction rolled into one.

His "Stop living. Stop loving her. And hating you." remained unvoiced, as Ianto pushed past Jack, and continued walking down the crowded sidewalk and disappeared into the crowd.

"Grief tears his heart, and drives him to and fro, In all the raging impotence of woe." -- Homer

What no one tells you about grief, he realizes, is that your bones, every fiber of your being, ache with the loss. Every morning he wraps himself up in his suit, whether this is in tribute or in defiance he isn’t sure, it’s all twisted together in his head. But he binds himself together each day, the wool, silk, and cotton fabric trapping sinews stretched to breaking, until every moment is controlled. For if he lets himself go…

He does his job. Makes his rounds in tempered silence. Does what he’s asked. Pours coffees. Portions biscuits. Picks up trash. Fills out forms. Researches coordinates. Doing no more and no less than he needs to get the job done. Remains calm, cool, collected, efficient.

But when he finds himself standing, staring at a caged Weevil, thrashing in it’s Perspex box, his thoughts turn to Tosh, of Mary, of girls cruelly trapped in the web of alien lies, and a flush creeps up above his collar. Hot wet anger spills out.

He keys open the cell door, and with practiced speed, tasers the Weevil into submission. Watches it drop to the floor of it’s cell, calling out in pain. And for one moment, just one, he is jealous of the alien.

 

"How well I knew the light before!
I could not see it now.
'Tis dying, I am doing; but
I'm not afraid to know."
--Emily Dickinson

There had been no need for words, really, just Ianto leaning against the doorway to Jack's office, a heady flush staining his cheeks full pink. The stopwatch was in his pocket, but there seemed no need for it. Want hung thickly in the air, and the sound of short sharp breaths teased their senses.

They had done this before. Before.

But in the now, there was death to leave behind. Ianto had stood and looked at the pale cold woman in the morgue, and the senselessness of it all bubbled up around him.

Down in the morgue there were cold dead girls locked in drawers.

But here there was life, there was purpose. There was hate and want and fear. Desire and desperation all clashed together as calloused hands caressed sensitive flesh.

 

In the semi-darkness of the bunker, they re-learned each other's bodies, the dim blue light from above filtering down just enough to highlight the sheen of sweat on shoulders, backs, and thighs.

Ianto reveled in the heady flush, smiling as Jack moved beneath him, incoherent in his desires. Delirious friction, pain and pleasure building, building, and finally crashing over them. For a time they lay tangled together, floating in the fuzzy realms of exhaustion.

Indeed Jack barely stirred as Ianto slipped from the bed, pulled on his clothes, and climbed the ladder.

He retrieved his jacket from the floor of Jack's office, pulled his PDA from a pocket, and with a few swift keystrokes, downloaded Suzie's lockdown protocols. He smiled. Jack was really very easy to distract. Ianto drove home through the silent city streets and slept peacefully for the first time in a long while, knowing that he had gained a weapon that had heretofore eluded him.

 

"Revenge is the act of passion..." -- Samuel Johnson

 

Jesus. He can’t keep his hands to himself. He’s sweaty, and sticky, and starving, but he can’t help himself as he wraps his one arm around Jack‘s waist and runs his other hand up Jack’s arm from elbow to shoulder. Palms and fingers slowly exploring shoulder blades, wrapping around Jack's neck, thumbs stroking, teasing, testing pulse points, fingernails raking over the sensitive flesh just below the jaw line. Jack, who’s sitting naked on the edge of his bunk, digging the prawns out of the takeout container with his fingers, turns a bit in his arms, and Ianto can’t help but kiss the garlic sauce off the edge of Jack’s mouth. Sweat and soy sauce and stubble rough across his tongue.

An hour or so later, and Ianto is propped up against the pillows, finishing the takeaway with a fork, twirling the noodles around the tines. Jack is laying next to him, radiating heat. For one brief moment Ianto is at peace. He thinks about forgiveness. Wonders if there is a way to move on from the grinding gut-wrenching anger he carries with him in what seems like every molecule of his being. He's seen Owen's sorry attempt at exorcism.

And then.

Jack stirs in his sleep, rolling over to pillow his head on Ianto's chest. Mumbles, "Need you..."

For one bright moment Ianto thinks Jack's talking to him. But Jack continues, "Need you Doctor. You'll fix me..."

And Ianto knows then, at last, the price of peace.

"You can't conquer a free man; the most you can do is kill him." -- Robert Heinlein

There is a certain heady satisfaction, he finds, in shooting a co-worker.  He’s shot Weevils before, and Owen is near enough to that. He knows his control is slipping. He is desperate, true, but also not stupid. And a far better shot than Owen suspects. If he had meant to kill him, he would have. But where’s the fun in that?

Oh, he wants his Captain back. He’s been shocked at how good the sex is. Admittedly, he’s gotten a lot of pleasure out of being one of Jack’s lovers. But Owen doesn’t have the faintest clue about his real reasons for wanting Jack back.

Ianto has his own carefully crafted plans for Captain Jack Harkness; he does not know what he’ll do if the bastard disappears into the past like a ghost. He wants the real, visceral pleasure of jamming his gun to Jack’s head and pulling the trigger himself.

"Deep vengeance is the daughter of deep silence." -- Vittorio Alfieri

 

So on the day The Doctor's blue box appears, Ianto knows that this will be his ultimate revenge -- to take from Jack the one thing Jack wants most. This, this is what he's been waiting for. 

The others had gone for coffee. Jack had sent them. Kept Ianto back. Said he needed his help. Owen had hooted at that, but was dragged out of the Hub by Gwen and Tosh. But as the others left, Jack, pale and worn from three days in the morgue after his most recent death, backed Ianto up against the railing, pressed his hand against his heart, and kissed him again.

When Jack stiffened against him, Ianto turned and followed his gaze. He saw Jack staring at the containment jar which housed that mysterious hand. The jar was bubbling wildly, and wobbling on it's stand. For one mad moment, Ianto thought it was waving at him.

As Jack dashed into his office to grab the rucksack from under his desk, Ianto slid his PDA from his pocket and calling up a long buried program, punched seven buttons in sequence to plunge the Hub into sudden darkness.

Jack dashed towards the door as the emergency power kicked on, and Ianto punched a few keys to bring up the CCTV on the Plass, sending the feed to every monitor. They are suddenly surrounded by views of the blue box, and the grinding noise it makes.

"It's him, isn't it Jack? The Doctor?" he calls out as Jack is trying to override the cog door with his wrist strap.

Jack turns then, seeming surprised that Ianto is even there.

"Ianto?"

"How long have you waited Jack?"

"Help me with this, Ianto, I've got to get up there!"

"Help you?" Ianto finds himself laughing out loud at that.

"Christ you're stupid, Harkness."

 

Gun out, Ianto advances on Jack, and pushes him up against the cog door. Laughs to think that "Made in Wales" might be scored into Jack's back if he pressed into him hard enough.

 

Jack is struggling, but Ianto has one hand around his throat and the gun in his other hand is pressed to Jack's temple.

 

He repeats his question slowly, for emphasis, yes, but also he really wants to know, "How long have you waited, Jack?" 

 

"I won't let you keep me here!" Jack yells.

 

Ianto tightens his grip about Jack's neck and says calmly, "You're not in control here any more, Captain. First things first. I've modified Suzie's marvelous little lockdown program to jam that wrist strap of yours, but just in case, I want you to take it off and toss it into the water."

 

Jack struggles, gasping for breath around Ianto's clenched fingers.

 

"You do it Jack, or I'll put a bullet through your head and do it myself while you're lying dead at my feet."

 

Jack unbuckles the wrist strap and tosses it away as Ianto traces the barrel of his gun down Jack's cheek.

 

"You're really very pretty, Jack, but then I think you know that." 

 

"Now what, Ianto?" Jack asks, eyes flickering the monitors that surround them.

 

"Now, we wait. We're going to stay here and watch until that blue box disappears and your Doctor leaves you behind."

 

Jack slumps a bit then, leaning back against the door.

 

"Do you know you talk in your sleep?" Ianto asks, almost conversationally. "You keep asking him to 'fix' you."

 

When Jack spits in his face, Ianto backhands him with his gun hand, splitting his lip, and laughing as a trickle of blood drips from his mouth.

 

"You can't kill me," Jack says angrily.

 

"That was a bit of a shock," Ianto replies pressing the gun tighter against Jack's forehead. "Until I realized that didn't really matter. I just want to watch your face as you see him leave you behind. I'm guessing it won't be the first time. Will it?"

 

As if on cue, the grinding sound of the Doctor's ship filters through the speakers.

 

Jack's struggles take on an urgency, but Ianto slams his body into Jack's keeping him trapped against the door. He watches as Jack stares at the monitors, tears spilling from his eyes as the big blue box vanishes.

 

Ianto steps back then, and with a quick shift, puts one bullet through the hand's containment jar which shatters.

 

Ianto runs the thumb of the hand he has pressed into Jack's throat across his jaw, leans in and kisses him. With the taste of Jack's blood on his lips, he takes one step back, and with a quiet, "It's your turn now," he aims the gun at Jack's heart and pulls the trigger.

 
"Wear your best for your execution and stand dignified. Your last recourse against randomness is how you act — if you can’t control outcomes, you can control the elegance of your behaviour. You will always have the last word." -- Nassim Nicholas Taleb