TW Fic: Confessions
Sep. 6th, 2007 12:15 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
out_thereTitle: Confessions
Fandom: Torchwood
Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Word Count: 7,356.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Do I look like RTD to you? I didn't think so.
Notes: Set post-Countrycide. Hugs to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
researchgrrrl for encouraging my infatuation with Jack and Ianto, and big smooches to oxoniensis who is always a great britpicking beta to a friend in need.
Summary: One brush with cannibalistic villagers and everyone felt the sudden urge to confess.
ETA: Now with an incredibly pretty cover bygodofwine!
One brush with cannibalistic villagers and everyone felt the sudden urge to confess.
Gwen was the first, although Jack wasn't entirely sure she'd meant it as a confession. He'd been on his way back from the gun range, the acrid smell of gunpowder still strong on his hands, when he found her standing at her workstation, flipping through pages. He cleared his throat and she looked up, face pale and eyes wide; there was still a trace of horrified fear in her expression, but it was fading.
"You shouldn't be here," he said, as gently as he could. At five in the morning, the only person at the hub should have been Jack. Even Ianto was usually gone.
"Told Rhys we had some reports to fill out." She sounded distracted, worried. "If he calls, tell him-- But he won't call. He doesn't even know the number."
"You should be sleeping."
"I tried, but--" She shook her head and looked down at the desk, her dark fringe falling in front of her eyes. "It's too much, Jack. I can't even tell him, and it's too much. I don't want to keep secrets from him, not forever. He'll find out. And when he does..."
She trailed off, burying her hands in the large pockets at her hips.
It was then that Jack noticed the jacket: dark blue, single zipper, hood, thrown hastily over her jeans and top. Too big for Gwen, hanging below the curve of her hips. A jacket he'd seen on Owen weeks ago.
He understood. Of course he understood. Secrets took their toll. You paid a high price for knowing more than everyone else; most of the time, it was worth it, more than worth it, but sometimes you'd give everything to have someone else understand. To have someone else share that burden of knowledge, to have seen those things you'll never scrub out of your brain, to touch you and connect.
But understanding didn't offset his growing apprehension.
Resting a hand on her forearm, he curled his fingers around the delicate jut of bone at her wrist. "Go home, Gwen. Get some rest. Tell Rhys it was a bad day at the office, that you can't talk about it but you're glad to be home." Even if you're not, he mentally added. Even if you're not, say that you are, and let him remind you there's more to life than gore and fear and desperation.
He didn't say any of it, but it must have shown on his face because she grimaced and gave a small shrug. "You're right. I'm being the world's biggest idiot about this, aren't I?"
Jack laughed. "Blame it on the blood loss. A shotgun wound will do that to you."
***
The hub was oddly quiet without Gwen around. Jack was used to hearing his team gossip as they worked, talking and joking their way through the reports and general busywork of a slow day. But at the moment, the conversation was sparse and stilted, just the necessities.
Owen kept himself busy sorting through the mess that lived on his workstation and Tosh was in front of her computer more often than not, but they didn't talk. Ianto was around, filing and archiving and brewing as usual but being far quieter about it. Considering Ianto's ‘usual' meant standing silently in the shadows, that was saying something. Owen had advised bed rest -- his exact words had been, "If you're going to let yourself be used as a human punching bag, have the self-preservation to take a few days off," -- but Ianto had continued to come in each morning with his immaculate suit and his swollen, bruised face. His only concession was to stick a "Closed for fumigation" sign on the tourist centre's door.
"Wouldn't make a good impression on the tourists," he'd said as explanation to them all. His right cheek was puffy and purple, but he'd still managed to smile.
Jack had almost winced in sympathy. Then he'd noticed Tosh looking away, averting her eyes.
He waited until Owen was occupied in the autopsy room before asking her into his office. "Want a drink?" he asked, lifting the decanter, but she shook her head.
"What's this about?" Her tone was an even mix between defensive and curious; her loosely crossed arms didn't give much away either.
"I'm being a good boss," he said sincerely, and she raised her eyebrows sharply. "I can be a good boss!"
Tosh smiled sweetly, dark eyes full of amusement. "I never said you were a bad boss."
"I don't hear you singing my praises, either."
"If I sang that song, Jack, I'd be joining a choir. It might take away from your resounding solos." For an instant, Tosh looked surprised at her own words. It was the clue Jack needed. Tosh might be sarcastic, but she was rarely insulting. It usually happened when she was doubting herself, judging her perceived failings harshly; it was almost logical that when she felt she had to justify herself, she saw everyone else's flaws clearly.
"Any time you want to turn those lonely solos into a steamy duet, it'll be fine with me." He grinned widely, pouring as much innuendo and promise as he could into his tone. It didn't have the *desired* effect -- getting horizontal and naked, and the horizontal part of that was optional -- but it had the *expected* effect: Tosh relaxed and dropped her arms to her sides. He came closer to her and leaned against the edge of his desk. "Are you okay?"
"You asked me that before."
"And I'm asking you again." He gave her a moment to think before continuing. "You did good, Tosh. You kept your head, you worked out what was happening, you took action. I'm proud of you."
Tosh stepped over to the corner of his desk, still just out of arm's reach. She picked up the Gthorian intervortex transmogryfier, turning the small indigo oval over in her hands. The battery was flat so Jack used it as a paperweight, but Tosh seemed fascinated by it. "You spoke to the others?"
"As Ianto will attest, even the almost lethal missions need boring reports written about them. I talked to everyone."
He had. Ianto had recounted the tale with his fingers clenched around a Styrofoam cup of coffee, sitting in the moulded plastic chairs of the nearest hospital, waiting for Gwen to be discharged. He'd described it quietly, calmly, objectively, as formal and emotionless as any written report. It had been devastatingly simple: "They put a cloth bag over my head and beat me, stating it was to tenderise the meat. I passed out. When I came to, they'd also abducted Owen, Gwen and Tosh."
The recital was complete and thorough, recounting proceedings all the way to Gwen's hospital admission. At the end, when Ianto had finally looked up, made eye-contact and asked if Jack needed any further details, Jack had found himself lost for words.
He'd spoken to Gwen while Owen harassed the local doctors, demanding copies of paperwork and details of everything. She'd been frightened, terrified, desperate to understand *why* and completely unable to. But she'd told him about the Mexican standoff, about pointing a gun at a human being, at a policeman, and Owen nodding at her to pull the trigger. She'd talked about the boy, about Ianto, about nearly kissing Owen in the forest. By that time, Jack was pretty sure it was the painkillers talking.
Owen had talked on the drive back, holding the steering wheel with one hand as they slipped down endless, darkened roads. His voice was full of disgust and anger, but he kept the volume down, letting the other three sleep in the back seat. He sketched out the events briefly and then spent nearly an hour lecturing Jack on the health risks of eating human flesh.
After he'd dropped the other three at the hub -- Owen insisting on driving Gwen and Ianto home -- he took Tosh home, walking her inside her flat. He'd stayed for a mug of raspberry tea, asked a few questions about her escape and then let her sleep.
"What did they say?" Tosh asked, placing the transmogryfier back on the pile of outstanding invoices.
"They said that you did well, that you escaped--"
"That I ran?" She glared at him, defensive and vulnerable, and Jack had to fight the urge to engulf her in a hug. "Did they say that? Did Ianto?
Some conversations could happen without touch. Some couldn't. Jack walked over and settled his hands on her upper arms, holding her steady without crowding her. "We're proud of you. All of us."
"I ran, Jack. I *ran*. I knew that Ianto wasn't behind me, I knew that he didn't get away, and I didn't care. I didn't stop. I didn't go back. I just ran."
This time, Jack gave in to his urge to pull her into a hug, wrapping his arms around her back. "You were being chased by a man who wanted to kill and eat you. Who threatened you with sexual violence," Jack said, because Ianto had stated it clearly, coldly, and said that the threat was only directed at Tosh. Jack still wasn't sure if he believed the latter part. "You had your arms tied behind your back and you ran for your life. There's nothing to be ashamed of."
"I didn't--" she mumbled into his shoulder, small hands clinging to his sides. "I knew Ianto was trapped there and I didn't even think about turning around. I just wanted to find the SUV and get away."
"You would have gone back," Jack said with utter certainty, speaking into her hair. He breathed in, smelling shampoo and apple blossoms, and then turned his head to press a kiss against her temple. "I know you, Toshiko Sato. You would have gone back. You would have thought about it, found a weakness, found a plan, and used that brilliant initiative of yours. There's not a cowardly bone in your body."
Then he held her until she'd cried it all out.
***
Owen, as always, was quicker to the point. "I should have shot the fucker."
He was standing at a bench in the autopsy room, sorting through gleaming metal equipment when Jack came by to check on him, and that was how Owen opened the conversation: "I should have shot the fucker. Had his damn hands around Tosh's throat and I had the gun in my hand. I should've shot him."
Jack took the last few steps down to the autopsy room slowly and suddenly had doubts about his leadership skills. He was sure that a good manager, if attacked by a shell-shocked employee, wouldn't punch back. If Owen ended up hitting him, Jack's instinct would be to strike back, and Tosh would then revoke all of his good leader points. Nonetheless, confessions only work if someone hears them out. "Why?"
Owen spun to face him, staring at Jack in outrage. "Are you nuts? Have you suddenly forgotten riding in on a tractor, no less, and shooting the hell out of the Village of the Flies? You remember the way they scared a kid out of his mind, until he nearly turned Gwen's insides into a doily, right? Because if you've forgotten, you can take a look at Mr Coffee limping around archives, trying to pretend they didn't nearly tear the tendon of his left knee."
Even in the middle of Owen's fury, Jack was relieved that somebody else had noticed the way Ianto was favouring his right leg. "I know what happened. I'm just wondering at a doctor regretting not killing someone."
"You saw what they did, what they'd been doing. Calling them animals is too good for them." Owen snorted and turned back to a tray of steel scalpels, inspecting them for any damage and arranging them in order. Watching anyone else handle glinting blades and talking about murder would have been unnerving; for Owen, the controlled, careful gestures were a good sign. "And you saw the damage they caused. To Tosh and Gwen and Ianto, and every other poor soul who stumbled across that sad imitation of a community. Don't tell me they didn't deserve it."
"It's not about whether they deserved it," Jack said, shrugging. "It's about whether or not you have the right to make that call."
Owen sneered, raising his chin in defiance. "It's the right call to make."
"They hurt your team, so they don't deserve to live? They're not acting as you would, so they're not really people?" Jack asked carefully and Owen gave a sharp nod. "And how does that make you any different from them?"
Owen started, eyes widening and narrowing quickly. "I'm *nothing* bloody well like them," he hissed vehemently, shoulders back and stepping forward. "Hear me, Harkness? Nothing. Like. Them."
"No, you're not," Jack agreed, stepping closer, refusing to back down. "That's why you didn't shoot."
There was a drawn out moment of tension, Owen glaring at him and Jack staring right back, bracing himself for a strong right hook. Then Owen drew in a breath, closed his eyes and let his head drop. "I still say they deserved it," he said softly.
"They deserved a lot worse than death," Jack said, surprised at how angry he sounded.
***
Over the next few days, Jack watched his team return to normal. Gwen returned to work, Tosh returned to an old idea for a translation program and Owen returned to half-hearted sniping. He heard conversations again. They were mainly between Gwen and Owen -- the two of them sharing a chumminess that left Jack uneasy but unable to intervene -- but Tosh joined in when she wasn't too distracted by entering code.
Jack's mind would have been at ease, if not for Ianto's continued silence. The bruises had faded, mottled into murky greens and yellows that left his usually pale complexion looking sallow. The favouring of his right leg -- it hadn't been a limp, as such, but it was there, shown in pauses and a careful stance when Ianto stood still -- wasn't noticeable anymore. The coffees appeared on desks, the towering, untidy boxes marked ‘archives' were slowly disappearing, and Jack's office was spotless. (He hadn't caught Ianto in the act of tidying it but every time he left his office, Jack returned to find another pile of filing gone, another pile of outstanding invoices paid and sorted. His desk hadn't been this clear since… ever.)
Ianto was there. He was working. But wherever Jack went in the hub, Ianto wasn't there.
In the end, Jack stayed at his desk, figuring he could lie in wait. He stayed in his office all morning, three hours straight, and only left once to double-check a few lines of translated Viderian for Tosh. (Most people found it hard to translate a language that had one word that meant sex, ecstasy, caffeine or beauty, depending on context; Jack thought it made perfect sense.) At a maximum, he was gone for seven minutes. But when he returned to his office, there was a cup of hot coffee sitting on his desk and two reports left for his signature.
The next time, it took four and half hours and Jack was so mesmerised by strange alien abduction stories in a trashy tabloid that he nearly didn't look up.
"Thanks," he said, distractedly, picking up the mug sitting on his desk. Then he remembered why he'd started reading the article -- pure boredom and it was the only thing sitting in his office that he hadn't read yet -- and glanced up in time to see Ianto leaving with an empty mug. "Hey, wait."
Ianto turned around, letting Jack's office door close as he did so. "Yes, sir?" he asked, all polite disinterest.
"Seven words," Jack said, and Ianto continued to watch him politely. Didn't ask what Jack was talking about, didn't respond at all. "That makes seven words I've heard you say today. All day, that's it."
Jack paused, determined to wait him out, and eventually Ianto said, "In that case, let's make it fifteen, sir."
"We take a charming vacation in a village that tries to eat you, and all you have to say is ‘let's make it fifteen'?"
"I also said ‘sir,'" Ianto added.
Jack frowned. The trouble with Ianto Jones was that it was so hard to read him. Oh, it made him fun and interesting in all the best ways, left Jack wondering precisely what he'd be like in bed, once you stripped away the scrupulous presentation, but it made these conversations rather hard. "You could have died. You very nearly did. Don't you have anything else to say?"
"I already gave you a full report of events." Ianto's tone was even and controlled. Not a sign of anger or fear. It put Jack's teeth on edge. "Were there any other details you needed to know?"
Jack tried a direct assault. "What about how you feel about it?"
"That's none of Torchwood's concern."
"It's my concern."
"It shouldn't be," Ianto said simply without a trace of self-pity or indignity. He was stating facts, organising details, doing his job. Doing what he'd done this whole time: continuing as normal, acknowledging the facts and pretending they didn't matter. "Was there anything else, sir?"
"Yes," Jack said, although he didn't know what. He needed a reaction, he needed confirmation that Ianto was processing, was dealing with what had happened instead of bottling it up until he imploded. "You really don't feel the need to confess, to talk about what happened?"
"Confessions are based on guilt." There was a quirk to Ianto's lips that could -- if being extremely generous or naive --be described as a smile. To Jack, it looked more like a grimace. "I don't see that I should be guilty for how I acted."
"Sometimes they're based on regret," Jack said, ire building in his voice. "Sometimes they make you feel better."
"Really?" Ianto asked. There was a hint of sarcasm, of disbelief, but still no genuine emotion there. "Then why don't you give it a try."
"I would have shot them all. Every last one of them. Executed them in cold blood. How's that for a confession?"
"No, you wouldn't."
"If Gwen hadn't been there," Jack said, narrowing his eyes, angry at Ianto for turning this into a dare, angry at himself for putting his team into that danger, angry at the whole world for letting something so dangerous and appalling happen for decades, "I would have."
"No," Ianto said with a condescending shake of his head, "you wouldn't have executed all of them. One or two, certainly. But you wouldn't have killed them all, sir."
There was no sense of judgment on Ianto's face, no sense of rebuke. It was slightly terrifying to have somebody know him that well. Jack knew he wouldn't have shot them all but on the other hand, he'd always been a man of passion, a man willing to follow temptation no matter how foolhardy. He would have followed his anger; he would have shot and then regretted it.
"Is that all, sir?"
Jack studied him suspiciously. There was nothing in his tone that spoke of anger, nothing in that blotchy face that suggested it, but it was there, in the set of Ianto's shoulders, in the white-knuckled grip on the mug. "Are you angry that I would have shot, or that I didn't?"
For a moment, Ianto remained still. For that moment, Jack felt that thrilling edge of uncertainty, of not being entirely sure what Ianto would say. If Ianto would actually be honest. Or if Ianto would give a meaningless smile, a tip of his head, and say, "Not at all, sir," and pretend that it meant nothing, that everything meant nothing.
Then Ianto met his gaze. His tone was clipped, gruff with fury. "You can't manipulate a confidence out of someone, Jack. And I don't appreciate a half-fabricated confession."
Then he turned and walked out.
Leaning back in his chair, Jack watched him go. Partly because he always enjoyed watching Ianto walk away from him; partly because he wasn't sure what to do next. He'd wanted a reaction, true, but he hadn't wanted Ianto furious at him for the foreseeable future.
He wasn't sure how to fix it. Not yet. But he had no doubt that he'd find a way.
***
Jack gave it a few hours before he tracked down Ianto. While he was waiting, he helped Tosh with her translation database, racking his brain for any other languages he knew. In most, he knew the equivalent of ‘How far to your place?' and a compliment or two, but that was it. Tosh's plans required a little more detail than that, so Jack left her to it.
He signed off Owen's expense reports, dubious as the eBay and bar expenses were.
He let Gwen tell him about the newspaper articles she found on modern cannibalism. She talked about communities, the struggle to define Us versus Them, and produced old sociology papers on tribal behaviour. She said, "It was this horrible, terrible thing. But they did it together. They shared the guilt, they shared the burden. They shared a sense of privilege from doing something nobody else could."
"It bonded the village into this close knit community," she said, with a spark in her eye that spoke of sudden understanding. Jack's seen that expression on Tosh's face after converting a page of alien hieroglyphs into a letter to loved ones, on Owen's when he'd finished an alien autopsy and could explain what that light green organ actually does.
It was a quiet day, no unusual reports, nothing actually happening. By half past four, the hub had emptied.
Tosh left with her laptop under one arm, clearly planning to spend most of the night working on it. Owen and Gwen left at the same time, taking the lift together, trading quips about the likelihood of Rhys' team winning… whatever thing they're playing this weekend. Jack never bothered learning about organised sports, but he didn't need the context to recognise the new level of familiarity between those two. He didn't like it, but it was out of his control. He knew enough about being headstrong, about following what feels good, to know Gwen would do what she wanted and it'd break her heart. No matter how it ended, she'd recover, but it'd hurt.
And Jack couldn't do anything about it.
Sighing, Jack turned his attention to what could be helped.
A short search later, he found Ianto in the archive room, curled up at the base of one of the filing cabinets that line these walls. He was sitting on the floor, back leaning against the cabinet, knees pulled to his chest. He head was bowed, forehead pressed against his knees, arms crossed over his legs, hiding his face. Dark as a shadow, Jack found himself thinking as he looked at the dark hair, dark suit, dark shoes. Everything vulnerable and soft hidden away.
For a moment, Jack worried that this was more serious than he thought; that maybe he couldn't fix anything here, either. Then he heard one unmistakeable sound.
One simple, comforting sound: the sound of snoring.
Smiling to himself, Jack walked over, carefully nudged the pile of files at Ianto's feet, and then squatted in front of him. "Ianto," he said softly, voice echoing off the towering metal cabinets and dank brick walls. He repeated the name, but there was still no reaction. So he laid a hand on Ianto's shoulder, taking a moment to feel the smooth muscle underneath -- taking another moment to imagine just how Ianto would look out of that suit, how those bare shoulders would feel under his hands -- then he tightened his grip.
"Ianto."
Ianto startled, head coming up fast, blinking. "What-- Where-- Did you need something, sir?" he asked, quite befuddled and very adorable. His forehead showed the red imprint of his cuff buttons and the front of his hair stuck up at odd angles.
Jack wasn't surprised that just woken up was a good look for Ianto. "No emergencies. Just checking on you."
"Oh," Ianto said, as if the idea were foreign to him.
Maybe it was. Jack's become accustomed to looking after his team, checking up on them in little ways, making sure the latest danger hasn't left anybody with permanent scars, with anything more than bad memories. But usually Ianto was the one safely ensconced in the hub: planning routes, skimming police reports, keeping their cover story viable. Ianto filed, Ianto made coffee and somehow, between the polite ‘sir's and unruffled demeanour, he'd forgotten to watch over Ianto. He'd been distracted by Owen's bouts of temper, by Suzie's restless obsessions, by Gwen's wide-eyed amazement.
It had taken a Cyberman in his own damn base to make him look at Ianto, to remember there was a human being beneath those suits and glass-deep smiles. Beneath the easily ignored persona, there was a young man trying so hard to guard himself and hide his weaknesses, yet still so susceptible to certain risks.
Jack hadn't been a good commander to Ianto, and it showed. It showed in the way the rest of the team made time for Jack and in the way they were used to Jack making time for them; the way they were used to confiding and seeking out support in little conversations, in moments stolen from drudgery of everyday tasks and the importance of barely averted crises. It showed in the way that Ianto wasn't used to it, didn't seek it, wouldn't expect it. He wouldn't dream of demanding the attention, the time or the effort; wouldn't consider taking days off to recover, and Jack didn't know if it was because Ianto liked the familiar patterns of his job or if Ianto simply didn't see how important it was to take that time, how important he was to re-establishing the group dynamic.
"You're important, you know," Jack said, and again, Ianto looked startled. Jack probably could have introduced that line of thought a little more smoothly. "The team needs you. It's important that you're okay."
Ianto's brows drew together and he frowned briefly before he spoke. "Of course I am. No one wants to deal with Owen without coffee."
"That wasn't what I meant."
Ianto snorted. It wasn't a sound Jack was used to hearing from him, and he wasn't sure if it signified amusement or disdain. "Owen doesn't like making coffee. Tosh doesn't like doing administrative work. Gwen doesn't like answering phones. Please assure them that I'm fine, and put their minds at rest, sir."
Jack pulled his hand back from Ianto's shoulder. "If you're going to be that prickly, we can skip the heart-to-heart and go straight to the second step of employee management: a carefully worded email."
"Being considered a good ingredient for a stew will do that, sir," Ianto said sharply, bringing a hand up to smooth down his hair. He took a deep breath, letting his shoulders drop slightly and then said, "Also, according to our charter, the second step when dealing with a recalcitrant employee is to get them stinking drunk."
"Owen added that," Jack argued, "in permanent marker. It's not what I'd consider an official strategy."
"But it is there, sir. And technically..."
Jack rolled his eyes. "Technically, it applies. If you want some, I've got some Glenfiddich in my office."
"No, thank you," Ianto said, shaking his head. "I'd rather finish this filing and go home."
"You could go home now."
"It's not even five o'clock," Ianto said quickly, sounding offended.
"The others have already left," Jack said helpfully and it was only that he was watching Ianto carefully that he saw the quick, jaded glance Ianto shot towards the ceiling. He hadn't precisely rolled his eyes, but it was a fine distinction. "You don't have to stay."
"Someone should," Ianto replied and Jack let it slide. It probably wouldn't help to point out that he'd still be here, that he was always here. Ianto knew the hub wouldn't disappear in smoke if he turned his back on it, but knowing and believing were two very different things.
Jack leaned his weight back on his heels. It was a surprisingly comfortable position. Jack found most positions comfortable and the ones that weren't, well… they were usually well worth the muscle ache later. "I meant what I said. You're important to the team."
Ianto looked down at his pinstripe-covered knees but he didn't speak. There was something there, something shifting in the back of his eyes, something that Jack wanted to know, but Ianto wouldn't give it voice. Jack wanted to know what it was. He wanted to tease it out slowly, wanted to crack the mystery of his Ianto Jones and sooth the unspoken doubts. At times, Ianto seemed like an old pocket watch. Something precise, particular and made with care; an old watch that counted off the seconds but had been dropped, was a little dented and rattled if you shook it. Jack wanted to pry the old casing off, find the damaged cogs and repair them, restore it to its former glory.
But he'd always been a sucker for dark eyed boys lost in their own minds, in their own thoughts. He'd always been a sucker for a variety of things, honestly. For dark haired beauties giving him sultry stares; for evanescent blondes, whose smiles could power a searchlight; for moody loners with zany senses of humour; for a particular type of doctor. Jack's taste had always ranged far and wide but at the moment, beautiful, bruised and hardy was his poison of choice.
Pushing his palms against his knees, Jack stood up. Then he held out a hand to Ianto. "Want some help?"
Ianto nodded and took the proffered assistance, standing up slowly. He didn't let go.
Even once he was standing, he didn't let go. He kept his hand around Jack's wrist, fingers curling round the tanned skin of Jack's forearm.
Jack glanced up at him, but Ianto was watching their hands, mouth parted slightly as he breathed.
Jack thought, I could kiss him.
He knew he could. He was good at reading people; he was fantastic at reading when someone wanted to be kissed. He considered it for a moment: reaching up, laying a hand across Ianto's jaw line; leaning in slowly, telegraphing his intentions; landing an open kiss on Ianto's parted lips. Ianto would allow it, would welcome it, would kiss him back. Maybe not with finesse but certainly with enthusiasm, with desperation.
Would let Jack peel off jacket and waistcoat; would let Jack crowd him up against the filing cabinet and slide hands over cotton-covered skin.
Jack wasn't sure what would happen next.
He knew what he wanted to happen. He wanted to undo the buttons at collar and cuffs, pull the tie loose, reveal creamy skin and find ways to redden it. But at the moment, he wasn't sure if Ianto would allow that. Couldn't quite imagine Ianto letting it happen; could all too easily see himself being pushed away, Ianto staring at him with uncertainty and reluctance.
He wanted Ianto, sure. He'd wanted him since he saw him, regardless of the colloquial wisdom of not fishing off the company pier. Every surprise, even the apologetic betrayal, had made him more interesting, more fascinating to Jack. It had been a long time -- decades, really -- since he'd been so intrigued by someone and if he needed to wait a few more weeks, a few more months, until Ianto was sure (until Jack was sure he'd get what he wanted), well, Jack had the time. He certainly had the time.
But none of that meant he had to be the one to pull away first.
"I wanted Tosh to survive," Ianto said softly. Jack glanced up and Ianto pulled his hand back, giving a nervous smile. "That would be my confession. If I was going to make one."
***
Sitting at his desk, pouring over the Times pages, Jack debated the relative merits of brie versus edam. The crossword clue was "Cheese, 4 letters". He looked up as Ianto walked in. "I don't get it."
"It's quite simple, sir," Ianto said as he placed a hot mug on Jack's desk. "The numbers correspond with the clues. The ones listed under Across fit into the grid horizontally, left to right, and those listed under Down are words written vertically, top to bottom."
Ianto said it with a completely straight face, sounding nothing less than serious. Jack raised an eyebrow at him, maintaining silence. It took almost a minute before Ianto cracked and let himself smile.
"Well, you did ask, sir."
"True," Jack acknowledged happily, "but that wasn't what was confusing me."
"And what is?"
"You."
"I'm a very bewildering man," Ianto said dryly.
Jack smiled, surprised by how much he'd missed this. He'd missed Ianto's sly humour, the dry brush of sarcasm dusted over Ianto's helpful manners. "Bewildering isn't precisely how I'd describe you, but it'll do in a pinch."
Looking down, Ianto started helping himself to the pages on Jack's desk, shuffling the loose piles into neat stacks. It was another thing Jack had missed: the sight of Ianto hovering, giving Jack an opportunity to talk further.
"You wanted Tosh to survive," Jack said carefully, trying to keep his voice neutral. Not accusing, not cajoling, but patient and waiting.
"Yes."
Ianto stood with his weight balanced evenly, legs slightly parted, hands at his sides. He was trying to use the same trick -- keeping his body language neutral, forcing Jack to rely on what he said, not how he flinched, making Jack work to read him -- but Jack had been doing this a lot longer and knew the questions to ask. "Why would that be a confession?"
"Because of the context. Because..." Ianto trailed off, burying both hands in his pockets, lifting the hemline of his jacket as he did so. It was a stance Jack appreciated a lot more when he was standing behind Ianto. "It wasn't fuelled by concern about Tosh."
"You wanted her to--" Then Jack got it. "You wanted her to survive, as in, if there was a sole survivor."
Ianto might have been good at hiding himself in the shadows but in plain sight, it was easy to see the jolt of emotion in the quick twist of his shoulders, the flash of fear-guilt-worry across his face. "I'm not going to apologise for it."
"I don't expect you to."
"Good," Ianto said quickly, sounding far too young.
"I just want to understand. Curiosity. It's a failing of mine," Jack said with a shrug, only half joking. "Why Tosh?"
"No particular reason." The Welsh accent sounded thicker, but maybe Jack was looking for a distraction from the topic.
"Then why not one of the others?"
"I didn't know the others were in danger, if they were alive or..." Again, Ianto's voice trailed off. He managed a deep, unsteady breath, and then said, "If it was a choice between Tosh and me, if it came down to one of us, I didn't-- I couldn't-- It had to be her."
Jack could have asked so many questions, but instead he waited, gave Ianto the time to find his words.
"It's not that I wanted to die. I was terrified, just ask Tosh. She'll probably add that I was panicked and blithering. But I was more terrified of having it happen again. Being the only one left."
Jack had read the reports; he knew the statistics. He knew the survival rate from Torchwood Tower, knew the number of casualties from the Battle of Canary Wharf. He didn't need Ianto to spell it out.
He knew what it was like to be the only one left with a pulse, to step over the carcases of people he'd known. More than that, Jack knew what it was like to do it again and again. And again.
He'd said goodbye so many times the words sat on the back of his tongue every time he met someone new. He'd cared about people and lost them, until the word love left the taste of ashes in his mouth.
"You would have been able to bear it," Jack said calmly, and the words sounded cruel, heartless, ruthless even though he didn't mean to be. "You'd be amazed at how much you can survive losing."
"That's not the kind of amazement I want in my life, sir." Ianto sounded better. Still shaken, still a little off-kilter, but better. It was enough. "I just couldn't do it. It's not..."
Ianto broke off, looking down, displaying those dark eyelashes to best advantage. Jack knew he had it bad when he was noticing eyelashes. Over the past week, Ianto's jaw line had changed colour from mottled indigo to pear-yellow, and that hadn't stopped Jack enjoying the view at all; clearly, he'd had it bad for a while.
"Well, maybe it is a little cowardly," Ianto finished.
"You are a bewildering man, Ianto Jones. Most people wouldn't consider self-sacrifice to be cowardly."
"When you're motivated by fear, by the certainty that not doing it would be far worse, self-sacrifice loses the sheen of bravery. The meaning depends on the context."
Jack thought about his memories of breaking into the barn, glancing round to assess the situation. There were a few things that stood out: location of the enemy, state of the prisoners; the relief on Tosh and Owen's faces, the paleness of Gwen's cheeks as she held on to the boy. Ianto lying still on his side, trussed up like a Christmas turkey, a meat cleaver -- an honest-to-god *cleaver* -- dropped on the table and after that, all Jack remembered was anger.
He'd had this conversation with Tosh, before that, with Owen, before that, with Suzie. Eventually, he'll have it with Gwen. It always happened. People on his team needed reassurance of bravery, of honour. Jack wasn't given to introspection -- not naturally, at any rate -- but part of him knew his behaviour caused this. They started by following his lead and ended up thinking they should follow his example, throw themselves into danger, shoot first and say to hell with the consequences. The ridiculous thing about it was that Jack didn't risk anything. No matter what happened, he'd wake up gasping, always, always alive.
"Bravery isn't the absence of fear," Jack said and Ianto snorted.
"I don't need reassurance, sir. I just think I'd rather avoid field work in the immediate future. I'm better suited to the office."
"You're selling yourself short."
"I'm not selling myself at all." Ianto's tone was light but beneath it was a genuine warning. Nothing made Jack want to take a huge step forward more than being shown a line in the sand and being told, 'Do not cross'.
"That's a pity." Standing up from behind his desk, Jack gave Ianto a slow, smouldering stare that would have had at least forty other people jumping into Jack's arms (and his bed). Jack walked around to the other side of the desk and Ianto turned his shoulders slightly to follow the movement, watching him with narrowed eyes. Jack smiled just a little wider. "I think you'd be a bargain."
Ianto gave a twitch of a smile. "I think I'd be out of your price range, sir."
"What about if I paid off in instalments?"
Ianto smiled. Not a smirk, not a polite mask, but an actual smile: a quick flash of white teeth, cheeks rounding, eyes crinkling in the corners. He truly was a beautiful young man.
That's the problem with time-travel, Jack found himself thinking. It made him impatient. Jack didn't mind the never-ending drudge of daily life. Most days, Jack could bear the slow march of time, but right now, he didn't want to wait.
"This is the problem with living on the Rift and watching things from the future drop into your lap," he said to Ianto, stepping closer. He raised his hand, placed it on Ianto's shoulder and slid it across, inch by inch, until he was cupping the back of Ianto's neck. "It makes you impatient. You get sick of waiting for the future to happen. Waiting for those wonderful things you know are just around the corner."
"Jack," Ianto said softly, sounding a little breathless. He didn't say 'sir', he didn't say it with any reproach so -- in Jack's opinion -- it was an all-clear to go.
"It's been a bad week. I deserve a liberty or two." Jack stepped closer, until his chest was touching Ianto's, until he could feel every shift of breath. He loved the way Ianto didn't shy back, didn't lean away; he *really* loved the way Ianto stared boldly back and refused to avert his gaze. "Instead of waiting for this, like I should, I'm going to borrow this from the future and give it back later."
Jack leaned forward and kissed Ianto, soft and warm, on the lips. Slow enough that Ianto had plenty of time to become accustomed, to relax into it and kiss back. When Jack pulled back, both of Ianto's hands had migrated to Jack's hips.
"I'm a little hesitant to ask," Ianto said, pulling his hands back and sounding surprisingly calm for someone who regularly accused Jack of sexual harassment, "but if you borrowed that from the future, precisely how do you intend to return it?"
Jack grinned. "I'm sure I'll think of something."
"Something that won't disrupt the space-time continuum or the fabric of the universe, I hope."
"I doubt there'll be any serious repercussions."
"Hmmm," Ianto replied, a little too thoughtfully.
"Trust me, one little kiss from the future will not change the universe as you know it." Jack held up his hands and gave a little shrug. "I'm good, but I'm not that good."
Ianto glanced down at the desk. "I was just thinking."
"What?"
"If you're going to be presumptive enough to 'borrow' a kiss from the future, why choose a kiss like that?"
Jack felt his eyebrows jump in surprise. And interest. "What sort of kiss would you have chosen?"
"Something more like this," Ianto said, reaching out and yanking him forward, pulling Jack's mouth to his. Ianto kissed open-mouthed and *dirty*, pushy tongue and sharp teeth and a hand clenched tight in Jack's hair, holding him close. It wasn't quiet -- Jack could hear the wet, slippery sounds of suction, the noisy, ragged breaths of Ianto dragging air through his nose -- and it wasn't restrained.
It wasn't Ianto standing still and letting himself be seduced. It was Ianto twisting, turning them, pressing Jack against the hard edge of the desk, forcing a thigh between Jack's legs as he bit Jack's lower lip hard enough to bruise.
In other words, Jack thought as he got two hands on a truly excellent bottom, it was *fantastic*.
Then his phone rang. Jack cursed in a language that hadn't been invented yet.
"You have a conference call with the Prime Minister scheduled," Ianto said, low and gruff, still breathing heavily. It was a voice that should have been saying extremely graphic things as Jack got well and truly screwed -- instead of being metaphorically screwed by the universe as was happening right now. For a childish moment, Jack considered not moving, keeping his hands right where they were and rocking against the smooth heat of Ianto's thigh until he either came or Ianto started kissing him again (preferably, both).
He wondered if Ianto felt the same temptation since he closed his eyes and took a deep breath before stepping back and straightening his very crooked tie.
Ignoring the ringing of his phone for a moment longer, Jack stretched his arm out and circled the back of Ianto's hand. "Ianto?"
"I think the rest of that," Ianto said carefully, clearly choosing his words, "is one of those things you have to wait for."
Fandom: Torchwood
Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Word Count: 7,356.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Do I look like RTD to you? I didn't think so.
Notes: Set post-Countrycide. Hugs to
researchgrrrl for encouraging my infatuation with Jack and Ianto, and big smooches to oxoniensis who is always a great britpicking beta to a friend in need.Summary: One brush with cannibalistic villagers and everyone felt the sudden urge to confess.
ETA: Now with an incredibly pretty cover by
godofwine!One brush with cannibalistic villagers and everyone felt the sudden urge to confess.
Gwen was the first, although Jack wasn't entirely sure she'd meant it as a confession. He'd been on his way back from the gun range, the acrid smell of gunpowder still strong on his hands, when he found her standing at her workstation, flipping through pages. He cleared his throat and she looked up, face pale and eyes wide; there was still a trace of horrified fear in her expression, but it was fading.
"You shouldn't be here," he said, as gently as he could. At five in the morning, the only person at the hub should have been Jack. Even Ianto was usually gone.
"Told Rhys we had some reports to fill out." She sounded distracted, worried. "If he calls, tell him-- But he won't call. He doesn't even know the number."
"You should be sleeping."
"I tried, but--" She shook her head and looked down at the desk, her dark fringe falling in front of her eyes. "It's too much, Jack. I can't even tell him, and it's too much. I don't want to keep secrets from him, not forever. He'll find out. And when he does..."
She trailed off, burying her hands in the large pockets at her hips.
It was then that Jack noticed the jacket: dark blue, single zipper, hood, thrown hastily over her jeans and top. Too big for Gwen, hanging below the curve of her hips. A jacket he'd seen on Owen weeks ago.
He understood. Of course he understood. Secrets took their toll. You paid a high price for knowing more than everyone else; most of the time, it was worth it, more than worth it, but sometimes you'd give everything to have someone else understand. To have someone else share that burden of knowledge, to have seen those things you'll never scrub out of your brain, to touch you and connect.
But understanding didn't offset his growing apprehension.
Resting a hand on her forearm, he curled his fingers around the delicate jut of bone at her wrist. "Go home, Gwen. Get some rest. Tell Rhys it was a bad day at the office, that you can't talk about it but you're glad to be home." Even if you're not, he mentally added. Even if you're not, say that you are, and let him remind you there's more to life than gore and fear and desperation.
He didn't say any of it, but it must have shown on his face because she grimaced and gave a small shrug. "You're right. I'm being the world's biggest idiot about this, aren't I?"
Jack laughed. "Blame it on the blood loss. A shotgun wound will do that to you."
***
The hub was oddly quiet without Gwen around. Jack was used to hearing his team gossip as they worked, talking and joking their way through the reports and general busywork of a slow day. But at the moment, the conversation was sparse and stilted, just the necessities.
Owen kept himself busy sorting through the mess that lived on his workstation and Tosh was in front of her computer more often than not, but they didn't talk. Ianto was around, filing and archiving and brewing as usual but being far quieter about it. Considering Ianto's ‘usual' meant standing silently in the shadows, that was saying something. Owen had advised bed rest -- his exact words had been, "If you're going to let yourself be used as a human punching bag, have the self-preservation to take a few days off," -- but Ianto had continued to come in each morning with his immaculate suit and his swollen, bruised face. His only concession was to stick a "Closed for fumigation" sign on the tourist centre's door.
"Wouldn't make a good impression on the tourists," he'd said as explanation to them all. His right cheek was puffy and purple, but he'd still managed to smile.
Jack had almost winced in sympathy. Then he'd noticed Tosh looking away, averting her eyes.
He waited until Owen was occupied in the autopsy room before asking her into his office. "Want a drink?" he asked, lifting the decanter, but she shook her head.
"What's this about?" Her tone was an even mix between defensive and curious; her loosely crossed arms didn't give much away either.
"I'm being a good boss," he said sincerely, and she raised her eyebrows sharply. "I can be a good boss!"
Tosh smiled sweetly, dark eyes full of amusement. "I never said you were a bad boss."
"I don't hear you singing my praises, either."
"If I sang that song, Jack, I'd be joining a choir. It might take away from your resounding solos." For an instant, Tosh looked surprised at her own words. It was the clue Jack needed. Tosh might be sarcastic, but she was rarely insulting. It usually happened when she was doubting herself, judging her perceived failings harshly; it was almost logical that when she felt she had to justify herself, she saw everyone else's flaws clearly.
"Any time you want to turn those lonely solos into a steamy duet, it'll be fine with me." He grinned widely, pouring as much innuendo and promise as he could into his tone. It didn't have the *desired* effect -- getting horizontal and naked, and the horizontal part of that was optional -- but it had the *expected* effect: Tosh relaxed and dropped her arms to her sides. He came closer to her and leaned against the edge of his desk. "Are you okay?"
"You asked me that before."
"And I'm asking you again." He gave her a moment to think before continuing. "You did good, Tosh. You kept your head, you worked out what was happening, you took action. I'm proud of you."
Tosh stepped over to the corner of his desk, still just out of arm's reach. She picked up the Gthorian intervortex transmogryfier, turning the small indigo oval over in her hands. The battery was flat so Jack used it as a paperweight, but Tosh seemed fascinated by it. "You spoke to the others?"
"As Ianto will attest, even the almost lethal missions need boring reports written about them. I talked to everyone."
He had. Ianto had recounted the tale with his fingers clenched around a Styrofoam cup of coffee, sitting in the moulded plastic chairs of the nearest hospital, waiting for Gwen to be discharged. He'd described it quietly, calmly, objectively, as formal and emotionless as any written report. It had been devastatingly simple: "They put a cloth bag over my head and beat me, stating it was to tenderise the meat. I passed out. When I came to, they'd also abducted Owen, Gwen and Tosh."
The recital was complete and thorough, recounting proceedings all the way to Gwen's hospital admission. At the end, when Ianto had finally looked up, made eye-contact and asked if Jack needed any further details, Jack had found himself lost for words.
He'd spoken to Gwen while Owen harassed the local doctors, demanding copies of paperwork and details of everything. She'd been frightened, terrified, desperate to understand *why* and completely unable to. But she'd told him about the Mexican standoff, about pointing a gun at a human being, at a policeman, and Owen nodding at her to pull the trigger. She'd talked about the boy, about Ianto, about nearly kissing Owen in the forest. By that time, Jack was pretty sure it was the painkillers talking.
Owen had talked on the drive back, holding the steering wheel with one hand as they slipped down endless, darkened roads. His voice was full of disgust and anger, but he kept the volume down, letting the other three sleep in the back seat. He sketched out the events briefly and then spent nearly an hour lecturing Jack on the health risks of eating human flesh.
After he'd dropped the other three at the hub -- Owen insisting on driving Gwen and Ianto home -- he took Tosh home, walking her inside her flat. He'd stayed for a mug of raspberry tea, asked a few questions about her escape and then let her sleep.
"What did they say?" Tosh asked, placing the transmogryfier back on the pile of outstanding invoices.
"They said that you did well, that you escaped--"
"That I ran?" She glared at him, defensive and vulnerable, and Jack had to fight the urge to engulf her in a hug. "Did they say that? Did Ianto?
Some conversations could happen without touch. Some couldn't. Jack walked over and settled his hands on her upper arms, holding her steady without crowding her. "We're proud of you. All of us."
"I ran, Jack. I *ran*. I knew that Ianto wasn't behind me, I knew that he didn't get away, and I didn't care. I didn't stop. I didn't go back. I just ran."
This time, Jack gave in to his urge to pull her into a hug, wrapping his arms around her back. "You were being chased by a man who wanted to kill and eat you. Who threatened you with sexual violence," Jack said, because Ianto had stated it clearly, coldly, and said that the threat was only directed at Tosh. Jack still wasn't sure if he believed the latter part. "You had your arms tied behind your back and you ran for your life. There's nothing to be ashamed of."
"I didn't--" she mumbled into his shoulder, small hands clinging to his sides. "I knew Ianto was trapped there and I didn't even think about turning around. I just wanted to find the SUV and get away."
"You would have gone back," Jack said with utter certainty, speaking into her hair. He breathed in, smelling shampoo and apple blossoms, and then turned his head to press a kiss against her temple. "I know you, Toshiko Sato. You would have gone back. You would have thought about it, found a weakness, found a plan, and used that brilliant initiative of yours. There's not a cowardly bone in your body."
Then he held her until she'd cried it all out.
***
Owen, as always, was quicker to the point. "I should have shot the fucker."
He was standing at a bench in the autopsy room, sorting through gleaming metal equipment when Jack came by to check on him, and that was how Owen opened the conversation: "I should have shot the fucker. Had his damn hands around Tosh's throat and I had the gun in my hand. I should've shot him."
Jack took the last few steps down to the autopsy room slowly and suddenly had doubts about his leadership skills. He was sure that a good manager, if attacked by a shell-shocked employee, wouldn't punch back. If Owen ended up hitting him, Jack's instinct would be to strike back, and Tosh would then revoke all of his good leader points. Nonetheless, confessions only work if someone hears them out. "Why?"
Owen spun to face him, staring at Jack in outrage. "Are you nuts? Have you suddenly forgotten riding in on a tractor, no less, and shooting the hell out of the Village of the Flies? You remember the way they scared a kid out of his mind, until he nearly turned Gwen's insides into a doily, right? Because if you've forgotten, you can take a look at Mr Coffee limping around archives, trying to pretend they didn't nearly tear the tendon of his left knee."
Even in the middle of Owen's fury, Jack was relieved that somebody else had noticed the way Ianto was favouring his right leg. "I know what happened. I'm just wondering at a doctor regretting not killing someone."
"You saw what they did, what they'd been doing. Calling them animals is too good for them." Owen snorted and turned back to a tray of steel scalpels, inspecting them for any damage and arranging them in order. Watching anyone else handle glinting blades and talking about murder would have been unnerving; for Owen, the controlled, careful gestures were a good sign. "And you saw the damage they caused. To Tosh and Gwen and Ianto, and every other poor soul who stumbled across that sad imitation of a community. Don't tell me they didn't deserve it."
"It's not about whether they deserved it," Jack said, shrugging. "It's about whether or not you have the right to make that call."
Owen sneered, raising his chin in defiance. "It's the right call to make."
"They hurt your team, so they don't deserve to live? They're not acting as you would, so they're not really people?" Jack asked carefully and Owen gave a sharp nod. "And how does that make you any different from them?"
Owen started, eyes widening and narrowing quickly. "I'm *nothing* bloody well like them," he hissed vehemently, shoulders back and stepping forward. "Hear me, Harkness? Nothing. Like. Them."
"No, you're not," Jack agreed, stepping closer, refusing to back down. "That's why you didn't shoot."
There was a drawn out moment of tension, Owen glaring at him and Jack staring right back, bracing himself for a strong right hook. Then Owen drew in a breath, closed his eyes and let his head drop. "I still say they deserved it," he said softly.
"They deserved a lot worse than death," Jack said, surprised at how angry he sounded.
***
Over the next few days, Jack watched his team return to normal. Gwen returned to work, Tosh returned to an old idea for a translation program and Owen returned to half-hearted sniping. He heard conversations again. They were mainly between Gwen and Owen -- the two of them sharing a chumminess that left Jack uneasy but unable to intervene -- but Tosh joined in when she wasn't too distracted by entering code.
Jack's mind would have been at ease, if not for Ianto's continued silence. The bruises had faded, mottled into murky greens and yellows that left his usually pale complexion looking sallow. The favouring of his right leg -- it hadn't been a limp, as such, but it was there, shown in pauses and a careful stance when Ianto stood still -- wasn't noticeable anymore. The coffees appeared on desks, the towering, untidy boxes marked ‘archives' were slowly disappearing, and Jack's office was spotless. (He hadn't caught Ianto in the act of tidying it but every time he left his office, Jack returned to find another pile of filing gone, another pile of outstanding invoices paid and sorted. His desk hadn't been this clear since… ever.)
Ianto was there. He was working. But wherever Jack went in the hub, Ianto wasn't there.
In the end, Jack stayed at his desk, figuring he could lie in wait. He stayed in his office all morning, three hours straight, and only left once to double-check a few lines of translated Viderian for Tosh. (Most people found it hard to translate a language that had one word that meant sex, ecstasy, caffeine or beauty, depending on context; Jack thought it made perfect sense.) At a maximum, he was gone for seven minutes. But when he returned to his office, there was a cup of hot coffee sitting on his desk and two reports left for his signature.
The next time, it took four and half hours and Jack was so mesmerised by strange alien abduction stories in a trashy tabloid that he nearly didn't look up.
"Thanks," he said, distractedly, picking up the mug sitting on his desk. Then he remembered why he'd started reading the article -- pure boredom and it was the only thing sitting in his office that he hadn't read yet -- and glanced up in time to see Ianto leaving with an empty mug. "Hey, wait."
Ianto turned around, letting Jack's office door close as he did so. "Yes, sir?" he asked, all polite disinterest.
"Seven words," Jack said, and Ianto continued to watch him politely. Didn't ask what Jack was talking about, didn't respond at all. "That makes seven words I've heard you say today. All day, that's it."
Jack paused, determined to wait him out, and eventually Ianto said, "In that case, let's make it fifteen, sir."
"We take a charming vacation in a village that tries to eat you, and all you have to say is ‘let's make it fifteen'?"
"I also said ‘sir,'" Ianto added.
Jack frowned. The trouble with Ianto Jones was that it was so hard to read him. Oh, it made him fun and interesting in all the best ways, left Jack wondering precisely what he'd be like in bed, once you stripped away the scrupulous presentation, but it made these conversations rather hard. "You could have died. You very nearly did. Don't you have anything else to say?"
"I already gave you a full report of events." Ianto's tone was even and controlled. Not a sign of anger or fear. It put Jack's teeth on edge. "Were there any other details you needed to know?"
Jack tried a direct assault. "What about how you feel about it?"
"That's none of Torchwood's concern."
"It's my concern."
"It shouldn't be," Ianto said simply without a trace of self-pity or indignity. He was stating facts, organising details, doing his job. Doing what he'd done this whole time: continuing as normal, acknowledging the facts and pretending they didn't matter. "Was there anything else, sir?"
"Yes," Jack said, although he didn't know what. He needed a reaction, he needed confirmation that Ianto was processing, was dealing with what had happened instead of bottling it up until he imploded. "You really don't feel the need to confess, to talk about what happened?"
"Confessions are based on guilt." There was a quirk to Ianto's lips that could -- if being extremely generous or naive --be described as a smile. To Jack, it looked more like a grimace. "I don't see that I should be guilty for how I acted."
"Sometimes they're based on regret," Jack said, ire building in his voice. "Sometimes they make you feel better."
"Really?" Ianto asked. There was a hint of sarcasm, of disbelief, but still no genuine emotion there. "Then why don't you give it a try."
"I would have shot them all. Every last one of them. Executed them in cold blood. How's that for a confession?"
"No, you wouldn't."
"If Gwen hadn't been there," Jack said, narrowing his eyes, angry at Ianto for turning this into a dare, angry at himself for putting his team into that danger, angry at the whole world for letting something so dangerous and appalling happen for decades, "I would have."
"No," Ianto said with a condescending shake of his head, "you wouldn't have executed all of them. One or two, certainly. But you wouldn't have killed them all, sir."
There was no sense of judgment on Ianto's face, no sense of rebuke. It was slightly terrifying to have somebody know him that well. Jack knew he wouldn't have shot them all but on the other hand, he'd always been a man of passion, a man willing to follow temptation no matter how foolhardy. He would have followed his anger; he would have shot and then regretted it.
"Is that all, sir?"
Jack studied him suspiciously. There was nothing in his tone that spoke of anger, nothing in that blotchy face that suggested it, but it was there, in the set of Ianto's shoulders, in the white-knuckled grip on the mug. "Are you angry that I would have shot, or that I didn't?"
For a moment, Ianto remained still. For that moment, Jack felt that thrilling edge of uncertainty, of not being entirely sure what Ianto would say. If Ianto would actually be honest. Or if Ianto would give a meaningless smile, a tip of his head, and say, "Not at all, sir," and pretend that it meant nothing, that everything meant nothing.
Then Ianto met his gaze. His tone was clipped, gruff with fury. "You can't manipulate a confidence out of someone, Jack. And I don't appreciate a half-fabricated confession."
Then he turned and walked out.
Leaning back in his chair, Jack watched him go. Partly because he always enjoyed watching Ianto walk away from him; partly because he wasn't sure what to do next. He'd wanted a reaction, true, but he hadn't wanted Ianto furious at him for the foreseeable future.
He wasn't sure how to fix it. Not yet. But he had no doubt that he'd find a way.
***
Jack gave it a few hours before he tracked down Ianto. While he was waiting, he helped Tosh with her translation database, racking his brain for any other languages he knew. In most, he knew the equivalent of ‘How far to your place?' and a compliment or two, but that was it. Tosh's plans required a little more detail than that, so Jack left her to it.
He signed off Owen's expense reports, dubious as the eBay and bar expenses were.
He let Gwen tell him about the newspaper articles she found on modern cannibalism. She talked about communities, the struggle to define Us versus Them, and produced old sociology papers on tribal behaviour. She said, "It was this horrible, terrible thing. But they did it together. They shared the guilt, they shared the burden. They shared a sense of privilege from doing something nobody else could."
"It bonded the village into this close knit community," she said, with a spark in her eye that spoke of sudden understanding. Jack's seen that expression on Tosh's face after converting a page of alien hieroglyphs into a letter to loved ones, on Owen's when he'd finished an alien autopsy and could explain what that light green organ actually does.
It was a quiet day, no unusual reports, nothing actually happening. By half past four, the hub had emptied.
Tosh left with her laptop under one arm, clearly planning to spend most of the night working on it. Owen and Gwen left at the same time, taking the lift together, trading quips about the likelihood of Rhys' team winning… whatever thing they're playing this weekend. Jack never bothered learning about organised sports, but he didn't need the context to recognise the new level of familiarity between those two. He didn't like it, but it was out of his control. He knew enough about being headstrong, about following what feels good, to know Gwen would do what she wanted and it'd break her heart. No matter how it ended, she'd recover, but it'd hurt.
And Jack couldn't do anything about it.
Sighing, Jack turned his attention to what could be helped.
A short search later, he found Ianto in the archive room, curled up at the base of one of the filing cabinets that line these walls. He was sitting on the floor, back leaning against the cabinet, knees pulled to his chest. He head was bowed, forehead pressed against his knees, arms crossed over his legs, hiding his face. Dark as a shadow, Jack found himself thinking as he looked at the dark hair, dark suit, dark shoes. Everything vulnerable and soft hidden away.
For a moment, Jack worried that this was more serious than he thought; that maybe he couldn't fix anything here, either. Then he heard one unmistakeable sound.
One simple, comforting sound: the sound of snoring.
Smiling to himself, Jack walked over, carefully nudged the pile of files at Ianto's feet, and then squatted in front of him. "Ianto," he said softly, voice echoing off the towering metal cabinets and dank brick walls. He repeated the name, but there was still no reaction. So he laid a hand on Ianto's shoulder, taking a moment to feel the smooth muscle underneath -- taking another moment to imagine just how Ianto would look out of that suit, how those bare shoulders would feel under his hands -- then he tightened his grip.
"Ianto."
Ianto startled, head coming up fast, blinking. "What-- Where-- Did you need something, sir?" he asked, quite befuddled and very adorable. His forehead showed the red imprint of his cuff buttons and the front of his hair stuck up at odd angles.
Jack wasn't surprised that just woken up was a good look for Ianto. "No emergencies. Just checking on you."
"Oh," Ianto said, as if the idea were foreign to him.
Maybe it was. Jack's become accustomed to looking after his team, checking up on them in little ways, making sure the latest danger hasn't left anybody with permanent scars, with anything more than bad memories. But usually Ianto was the one safely ensconced in the hub: planning routes, skimming police reports, keeping their cover story viable. Ianto filed, Ianto made coffee and somehow, between the polite ‘sir's and unruffled demeanour, he'd forgotten to watch over Ianto. He'd been distracted by Owen's bouts of temper, by Suzie's restless obsessions, by Gwen's wide-eyed amazement.
It had taken a Cyberman in his own damn base to make him look at Ianto, to remember there was a human being beneath those suits and glass-deep smiles. Beneath the easily ignored persona, there was a young man trying so hard to guard himself and hide his weaknesses, yet still so susceptible to certain risks.
Jack hadn't been a good commander to Ianto, and it showed. It showed in the way the rest of the team made time for Jack and in the way they were used to Jack making time for them; the way they were used to confiding and seeking out support in little conversations, in moments stolen from drudgery of everyday tasks and the importance of barely averted crises. It showed in the way that Ianto wasn't used to it, didn't seek it, wouldn't expect it. He wouldn't dream of demanding the attention, the time or the effort; wouldn't consider taking days off to recover, and Jack didn't know if it was because Ianto liked the familiar patterns of his job or if Ianto simply didn't see how important it was to take that time, how important he was to re-establishing the group dynamic.
"You're important, you know," Jack said, and again, Ianto looked startled. Jack probably could have introduced that line of thought a little more smoothly. "The team needs you. It's important that you're okay."
Ianto's brows drew together and he frowned briefly before he spoke. "Of course I am. No one wants to deal with Owen without coffee."
"That wasn't what I meant."
Ianto snorted. It wasn't a sound Jack was used to hearing from him, and he wasn't sure if it signified amusement or disdain. "Owen doesn't like making coffee. Tosh doesn't like doing administrative work. Gwen doesn't like answering phones. Please assure them that I'm fine, and put their minds at rest, sir."
Jack pulled his hand back from Ianto's shoulder. "If you're going to be that prickly, we can skip the heart-to-heart and go straight to the second step of employee management: a carefully worded email."
"Being considered a good ingredient for a stew will do that, sir," Ianto said sharply, bringing a hand up to smooth down his hair. He took a deep breath, letting his shoulders drop slightly and then said, "Also, according to our charter, the second step when dealing with a recalcitrant employee is to get them stinking drunk."
"Owen added that," Jack argued, "in permanent marker. It's not what I'd consider an official strategy."
"But it is there, sir. And technically..."
Jack rolled his eyes. "Technically, it applies. If you want some, I've got some Glenfiddich in my office."
"No, thank you," Ianto said, shaking his head. "I'd rather finish this filing and go home."
"You could go home now."
"It's not even five o'clock," Ianto said quickly, sounding offended.
"The others have already left," Jack said helpfully and it was only that he was watching Ianto carefully that he saw the quick, jaded glance Ianto shot towards the ceiling. He hadn't precisely rolled his eyes, but it was a fine distinction. "You don't have to stay."
"Someone should," Ianto replied and Jack let it slide. It probably wouldn't help to point out that he'd still be here, that he was always here. Ianto knew the hub wouldn't disappear in smoke if he turned his back on it, but knowing and believing were two very different things.
Jack leaned his weight back on his heels. It was a surprisingly comfortable position. Jack found most positions comfortable and the ones that weren't, well… they were usually well worth the muscle ache later. "I meant what I said. You're important to the team."
Ianto looked down at his pinstripe-covered knees but he didn't speak. There was something there, something shifting in the back of his eyes, something that Jack wanted to know, but Ianto wouldn't give it voice. Jack wanted to know what it was. He wanted to tease it out slowly, wanted to crack the mystery of his Ianto Jones and sooth the unspoken doubts. At times, Ianto seemed like an old pocket watch. Something precise, particular and made with care; an old watch that counted off the seconds but had been dropped, was a little dented and rattled if you shook it. Jack wanted to pry the old casing off, find the damaged cogs and repair them, restore it to its former glory.
But he'd always been a sucker for dark eyed boys lost in their own minds, in their own thoughts. He'd always been a sucker for a variety of things, honestly. For dark haired beauties giving him sultry stares; for evanescent blondes, whose smiles could power a searchlight; for moody loners with zany senses of humour; for a particular type of doctor. Jack's taste had always ranged far and wide but at the moment, beautiful, bruised and hardy was his poison of choice.
Pushing his palms against his knees, Jack stood up. Then he held out a hand to Ianto. "Want some help?"
Ianto nodded and took the proffered assistance, standing up slowly. He didn't let go.
Even once he was standing, he didn't let go. He kept his hand around Jack's wrist, fingers curling round the tanned skin of Jack's forearm.
Jack glanced up at him, but Ianto was watching their hands, mouth parted slightly as he breathed.
Jack thought, I could kiss him.
He knew he could. He was good at reading people; he was fantastic at reading when someone wanted to be kissed. He considered it for a moment: reaching up, laying a hand across Ianto's jaw line; leaning in slowly, telegraphing his intentions; landing an open kiss on Ianto's parted lips. Ianto would allow it, would welcome it, would kiss him back. Maybe not with finesse but certainly with enthusiasm, with desperation.
Would let Jack peel off jacket and waistcoat; would let Jack crowd him up against the filing cabinet and slide hands over cotton-covered skin.
Jack wasn't sure what would happen next.
He knew what he wanted to happen. He wanted to undo the buttons at collar and cuffs, pull the tie loose, reveal creamy skin and find ways to redden it. But at the moment, he wasn't sure if Ianto would allow that. Couldn't quite imagine Ianto letting it happen; could all too easily see himself being pushed away, Ianto staring at him with uncertainty and reluctance.
He wanted Ianto, sure. He'd wanted him since he saw him, regardless of the colloquial wisdom of not fishing off the company pier. Every surprise, even the apologetic betrayal, had made him more interesting, more fascinating to Jack. It had been a long time -- decades, really -- since he'd been so intrigued by someone and if he needed to wait a few more weeks, a few more months, until Ianto was sure (until Jack was sure he'd get what he wanted), well, Jack had the time. He certainly had the time.
But none of that meant he had to be the one to pull away first.
"I wanted Tosh to survive," Ianto said softly. Jack glanced up and Ianto pulled his hand back, giving a nervous smile. "That would be my confession. If I was going to make one."
***
Sitting at his desk, pouring over the Times pages, Jack debated the relative merits of brie versus edam. The crossword clue was "Cheese, 4 letters". He looked up as Ianto walked in. "I don't get it."
"It's quite simple, sir," Ianto said as he placed a hot mug on Jack's desk. "The numbers correspond with the clues. The ones listed under Across fit into the grid horizontally, left to right, and those listed under Down are words written vertically, top to bottom."
Ianto said it with a completely straight face, sounding nothing less than serious. Jack raised an eyebrow at him, maintaining silence. It took almost a minute before Ianto cracked and let himself smile.
"Well, you did ask, sir."
"True," Jack acknowledged happily, "but that wasn't what was confusing me."
"And what is?"
"You."
"I'm a very bewildering man," Ianto said dryly.
Jack smiled, surprised by how much he'd missed this. He'd missed Ianto's sly humour, the dry brush of sarcasm dusted over Ianto's helpful manners. "Bewildering isn't precisely how I'd describe you, but it'll do in a pinch."
Looking down, Ianto started helping himself to the pages on Jack's desk, shuffling the loose piles into neat stacks. It was another thing Jack had missed: the sight of Ianto hovering, giving Jack an opportunity to talk further.
"You wanted Tosh to survive," Jack said carefully, trying to keep his voice neutral. Not accusing, not cajoling, but patient and waiting.
"Yes."
Ianto stood with his weight balanced evenly, legs slightly parted, hands at his sides. He was trying to use the same trick -- keeping his body language neutral, forcing Jack to rely on what he said, not how he flinched, making Jack work to read him -- but Jack had been doing this a lot longer and knew the questions to ask. "Why would that be a confession?"
"Because of the context. Because..." Ianto trailed off, burying both hands in his pockets, lifting the hemline of his jacket as he did so. It was a stance Jack appreciated a lot more when he was standing behind Ianto. "It wasn't fuelled by concern about Tosh."
"You wanted her to--" Then Jack got it. "You wanted her to survive, as in, if there was a sole survivor."
Ianto might have been good at hiding himself in the shadows but in plain sight, it was easy to see the jolt of emotion in the quick twist of his shoulders, the flash of fear-guilt-worry across his face. "I'm not going to apologise for it."
"I don't expect you to."
"Good," Ianto said quickly, sounding far too young.
"I just want to understand. Curiosity. It's a failing of mine," Jack said with a shrug, only half joking. "Why Tosh?"
"No particular reason." The Welsh accent sounded thicker, but maybe Jack was looking for a distraction from the topic.
"Then why not one of the others?"
"I didn't know the others were in danger, if they were alive or..." Again, Ianto's voice trailed off. He managed a deep, unsteady breath, and then said, "If it was a choice between Tosh and me, if it came down to one of us, I didn't-- I couldn't-- It had to be her."
Jack could have asked so many questions, but instead he waited, gave Ianto the time to find his words.
"It's not that I wanted to die. I was terrified, just ask Tosh. She'll probably add that I was panicked and blithering. But I was more terrified of having it happen again. Being the only one left."
Jack had read the reports; he knew the statistics. He knew the survival rate from Torchwood Tower, knew the number of casualties from the Battle of Canary Wharf. He didn't need Ianto to spell it out.
He knew what it was like to be the only one left with a pulse, to step over the carcases of people he'd known. More than that, Jack knew what it was like to do it again and again. And again.
He'd said goodbye so many times the words sat on the back of his tongue every time he met someone new. He'd cared about people and lost them, until the word love left the taste of ashes in his mouth.
"You would have been able to bear it," Jack said calmly, and the words sounded cruel, heartless, ruthless even though he didn't mean to be. "You'd be amazed at how much you can survive losing."
"That's not the kind of amazement I want in my life, sir." Ianto sounded better. Still shaken, still a little off-kilter, but better. It was enough. "I just couldn't do it. It's not..."
Ianto broke off, looking down, displaying those dark eyelashes to best advantage. Jack knew he had it bad when he was noticing eyelashes. Over the past week, Ianto's jaw line had changed colour from mottled indigo to pear-yellow, and that hadn't stopped Jack enjoying the view at all; clearly, he'd had it bad for a while.
"Well, maybe it is a little cowardly," Ianto finished.
"You are a bewildering man, Ianto Jones. Most people wouldn't consider self-sacrifice to be cowardly."
"When you're motivated by fear, by the certainty that not doing it would be far worse, self-sacrifice loses the sheen of bravery. The meaning depends on the context."
Jack thought about his memories of breaking into the barn, glancing round to assess the situation. There were a few things that stood out: location of the enemy, state of the prisoners; the relief on Tosh and Owen's faces, the paleness of Gwen's cheeks as she held on to the boy. Ianto lying still on his side, trussed up like a Christmas turkey, a meat cleaver -- an honest-to-god *cleaver* -- dropped on the table and after that, all Jack remembered was anger.
He'd had this conversation with Tosh, before that, with Owen, before that, with Suzie. Eventually, he'll have it with Gwen. It always happened. People on his team needed reassurance of bravery, of honour. Jack wasn't given to introspection -- not naturally, at any rate -- but part of him knew his behaviour caused this. They started by following his lead and ended up thinking they should follow his example, throw themselves into danger, shoot first and say to hell with the consequences. The ridiculous thing about it was that Jack didn't risk anything. No matter what happened, he'd wake up gasping, always, always alive.
"Bravery isn't the absence of fear," Jack said and Ianto snorted.
"I don't need reassurance, sir. I just think I'd rather avoid field work in the immediate future. I'm better suited to the office."
"You're selling yourself short."
"I'm not selling myself at all." Ianto's tone was light but beneath it was a genuine warning. Nothing made Jack want to take a huge step forward more than being shown a line in the sand and being told, 'Do not cross'.
"That's a pity." Standing up from behind his desk, Jack gave Ianto a slow, smouldering stare that would have had at least forty other people jumping into Jack's arms (and his bed). Jack walked around to the other side of the desk and Ianto turned his shoulders slightly to follow the movement, watching him with narrowed eyes. Jack smiled just a little wider. "I think you'd be a bargain."
Ianto gave a twitch of a smile. "I think I'd be out of your price range, sir."
"What about if I paid off in instalments?"
Ianto smiled. Not a smirk, not a polite mask, but an actual smile: a quick flash of white teeth, cheeks rounding, eyes crinkling in the corners. He truly was a beautiful young man.
That's the problem with time-travel, Jack found himself thinking. It made him impatient. Jack didn't mind the never-ending drudge of daily life. Most days, Jack could bear the slow march of time, but right now, he didn't want to wait.
"This is the problem with living on the Rift and watching things from the future drop into your lap," he said to Ianto, stepping closer. He raised his hand, placed it on Ianto's shoulder and slid it across, inch by inch, until he was cupping the back of Ianto's neck. "It makes you impatient. You get sick of waiting for the future to happen. Waiting for those wonderful things you know are just around the corner."
"Jack," Ianto said softly, sounding a little breathless. He didn't say 'sir', he didn't say it with any reproach so -- in Jack's opinion -- it was an all-clear to go.
"It's been a bad week. I deserve a liberty or two." Jack stepped closer, until his chest was touching Ianto's, until he could feel every shift of breath. He loved the way Ianto didn't shy back, didn't lean away; he *really* loved the way Ianto stared boldly back and refused to avert his gaze. "Instead of waiting for this, like I should, I'm going to borrow this from the future and give it back later."
Jack leaned forward and kissed Ianto, soft and warm, on the lips. Slow enough that Ianto had plenty of time to become accustomed, to relax into it and kiss back. When Jack pulled back, both of Ianto's hands had migrated to Jack's hips.
"I'm a little hesitant to ask," Ianto said, pulling his hands back and sounding surprisingly calm for someone who regularly accused Jack of sexual harassment, "but if you borrowed that from the future, precisely how do you intend to return it?"
Jack grinned. "I'm sure I'll think of something."
"Something that won't disrupt the space-time continuum or the fabric of the universe, I hope."
"I doubt there'll be any serious repercussions."
"Hmmm," Ianto replied, a little too thoughtfully.
"Trust me, one little kiss from the future will not change the universe as you know it." Jack held up his hands and gave a little shrug. "I'm good, but I'm not that good."
Ianto glanced down at the desk. "I was just thinking."
"What?"
"If you're going to be presumptive enough to 'borrow' a kiss from the future, why choose a kiss like that?"
Jack felt his eyebrows jump in surprise. And interest. "What sort of kiss would you have chosen?"
"Something more like this," Ianto said, reaching out and yanking him forward, pulling Jack's mouth to his. Ianto kissed open-mouthed and *dirty*, pushy tongue and sharp teeth and a hand clenched tight in Jack's hair, holding him close. It wasn't quiet -- Jack could hear the wet, slippery sounds of suction, the noisy, ragged breaths of Ianto dragging air through his nose -- and it wasn't restrained.
It wasn't Ianto standing still and letting himself be seduced. It was Ianto twisting, turning them, pressing Jack against the hard edge of the desk, forcing a thigh between Jack's legs as he bit Jack's lower lip hard enough to bruise.
In other words, Jack thought as he got two hands on a truly excellent bottom, it was *fantastic*.
Then his phone rang. Jack cursed in a language that hadn't been invented yet.
"You have a conference call with the Prime Minister scheduled," Ianto said, low and gruff, still breathing heavily. It was a voice that should have been saying extremely graphic things as Jack got well and truly screwed -- instead of being metaphorically screwed by the universe as was happening right now. For a childish moment, Jack considered not moving, keeping his hands right where they were and rocking against the smooth heat of Ianto's thigh until he either came or Ianto started kissing him again (preferably, both).
He wondered if Ianto felt the same temptation since he closed his eyes and took a deep breath before stepping back and straightening his very crooked tie.
Ignoring the ringing of his phone for a moment longer, Jack stretched his arm out and circled the back of Ianto's hand. "Ianto?"
"I think the rest of that," Ianto said carefully, clearly choosing his words, "is one of those things you have to wait for."
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-04-08 06:55 am (UTC)I'm a little bit in love with this story for that reason: there's such a clear hopefulness to the end. jack flirts and Ianto ups the ante, and it's so certain that while Ianto isn't ready *yet*, when he is, there's totally going to be more of that kissing.
*happy sigh* Oh, these boys make me so happy.