Categories: Humor, Relationships, Hurt/Comfort
Characters/Pairings: Jack Harkness/Ianto Jones, OMCs, past!Ianto/OMC
Warnings: Language, domestic issues, Torchwood One
Word count: 4k+
Author Notes: Blah. Writer's block has killed me. So I went reading about for ideas and BAM! I found mattmetzger. Can I hear an amen? I went knocking on an email box and got permission to snag some of these fun and exciting little tidbits. But now they are MONSTERS. Pure evil! They're like tribbles. You feed them and they MULTIPLY INTO MAN EATING MULTITUDES. So this story will probably end up being a two shot. If that. Maybe a story and a half? I don't know. And it is not beta-ed. Anyway, I HATE Mary Sue's or John Doe's, but unfortunately this will probably land in one of those shitty AUs where they pop out of the wood works like fucking ants. Not there one minute, but biting the shit out of you the next.
Disclaimer: The author doesn't own shit. She can barely own a lunch right now. Thank you University and your ideas of appropriate money concepts.
The warning came unexpected in the form of a black and blue bruised survivor of Torchwood One. There were only a few, the same amount as the fingers on one hand, that were allowed to return to a semblance of a normal life after the battle at Canary Wharf. Two of which Ianto kept in touch with regularly, one that sent an old fashion postcard once every three months or so, and one that he never wanted to see again. Ever. One who, in his personal opinion, should never be allowed to walk free like a normal, sane person.
He was lucky this time. Very lucky. Greg Heath was an ex-guard that ran the lower level security around the Archives of Torchwood One, who pulled late night shifts so he could spend time during the day watching his daughter grow up. Ianto would pass a witty comment every so often to the guards he passed whenever he was on the outside layers of the maze-like Archives. In return, Greg and Ianto made a bond almost at once between jibes and coffee; when the machine would break down and the guards as a whole would cry as if the world was ending. With a few months of sociable interaction, a new archivist had locked himself in a vault and set off the alarm. Jaime Gray was a little older than Ianto and as flamboyant as a piñata. He was waving his arms wildly while Greg had snagged Ianto and two other archivists to open the security lock from the vault and as the doors opened, flung himself onto the nearest body, which happened to be Ianto. Since that day, the three of them had become a sort of Three Musketeers passing gossip and bitching down at the local about the higher ups. However, after Canary Wharf, the three agreed to split up and settle down into a ‘normal’ life as best as they could incase Torchwood ever rebuilt and went looking for past survivors to recruit.
So seeing Greg with an eye that hurt worse than a gimp leg without Vicodin was quite a surprise. More so that he showed up unannounced at the Tourist Office during the day. With a Weevil. In the back of his rented Mercedes. And Jamie blaring Ricky Martin in the passenger seat. “Got you a gift!” Greg was smiling like a juvenile ten year old even though he was pushing forty five.
Ianto had Torchwood One’s strict charter and rule book memorized like the Mötley Crüe knew their tour songs, and allowing two ex-members into a working facility was strictly forbidden. If he actually thought about it hard enough, technically he too was an ex-member. It’s not like he could really transfer from an organization that wasn’t there anymore and if he couldn’t transfer than there was no way that, now a head of a private security firm and a personal secretary of some CEO, could possibly do it while trying to keep normal jobs. It wasn’t like they could write down Torchwood as their last place of employment let alone explain what it was to their bosses. At least he could sneak the two down into the Hub without the team knowing since they were out on some pointless tracking mission for space junk.
With a mock sigh of exasperation, Ianto beckoned for Jamie to join them while turning to Greg with a stoic face, but with playful sarcasm lacing his words. “The least you could do is be a gentleman and carry the damn thing for me if you’re not going to put a bow on it.”
It wasn’t humanly possible, or at least Ianto didn’t think it was until he met the man, but Jamie frolicked into the Tourist Office with all the dignity and grace of Disney related princesses in ball gowns the size of mid-size Sedans proclaiming how his latest boy-toy was now his newest Prince Charming, making Greg groan how this new bloke was a God damn pansy ass git with more fashion sense than brains. Ianto was still waiting for flowers or hearts or theatrical lighting to appear around the man in some sort of blinding aura of love, peace, and free sex.
“I’ll bet ya, mate, twelve quid that this bloke do’sn’t last any longer than the one who talked like that ‘Merican bird with the Friday tune.” Greg replied in thick Irish as he studiously held the door open for Jamie and wandered back to the car, where he pulled the now unconscious Weevil and hefted it over his shoulder. Ianto snorted at the man’s strength and the cliché idea of Greg, a typical Irish bloke, just hefting another bag of potatoes over his shoulder. He rolled his eyes at how much he sounded like Owen.
The two of them left quicker than Paris Hilton from jail after depositing the Weevil, which he found out from Jamie that Greg had smacked it in the head with a shovel from the boot of the car, which in turn made Ianto wonder why Greg had a shovel in the boot of a rental car, but decided against asking, into the cells. But before they left, Ianto had found a cold beer abandoned in the kitchenette’s fridge to put on Greg’s black eye after making a snide comment to duck next time.
Unfortunately, that’s when the atmosphere got awkward. Jamie plucked at Ianto’s tie and Greg decided finders-keepers with the beer.
“Well you see, sweetheart, the brute over there didn’t quite get that from the Weevil.” Jamie started as he ran his hands up and down Ianto’s suit, whether to straighten it for him or feel him up, Ianto wasn’t sure. “It’s actually why we decided to come see you, honey. As much as we’d like to get back together and have loads of adulterous fun,” Greg rolled his eyes, reflexively pointing to his marriage ring, “We actually came to warn you.” Jamie’s hands and eyes were running over his body, checking either the stylist of the suit or how much Ianto had been working out. If he had to guess, it would be the former. Now if Jamie’s hands head south, that would be another thing altogether.
Ianto raised an eyebrow in response, smacking Jamie’s adventurous hands every so often and instead looking to Greg for the quick rehearsal of the story. Greg shrugged with one shoulder as he chugged another gulp from the disappearing beer can, “Ran into Kane a few days ago at a local in London. ‘Parently, the little shit has found a way to track us down and he’s hot on ya tail.” Greg looked at the ground solemnly, “The sonovabitch got me thrown right on out of that pub. I had a liken for it.”
Jamie huffed of a man long suffering from his mate’s status of, and Ianto died from hysterical laughter the first time he heard it, not evolving from a Neanderthal that scratched in public, had the emotions of a barbarian, and thought that everything, including relationships, can be fixed by a can of WD-40. “You can find another one of your dank little caves with other brutish men who pound their chests in victory over a sport and drinks piss from glasses the size of milk jugs.” Jamie settled his hands around Ianto’s as if he might get down on one knee. “What King Kong is trying to say, is that Kane is trying to find you and win your amazing crystalized prism of a heart back since his life is dull without the colour yours holds.”
He didn’t know if he wanted to run home, pack all his belongings, and head to New Zealand claiming he was a long lost relative of a sheep herder in a village no one could pronounce nor care about and that he was a servant of the Church, but secretly was a male escort on weekends to keep up with his monthly payments to his drug dealer or else face the consequences of working at a brothel with submarine duty. Or, stockpile as many dangerous weapons into the Archives with trip wires and booby traps that would make the Saw films look like a walk in the woods with Bambi and friends while adopting the same mindset of a Cold War veteran who digs holes in his yard for bunkers and believes that the mailman is actually a Commie bastard who reads Pravda on his porcelain throne, laughing at Capitalism, and declares loudly that Vodka does indeed fix everything.
After taking multiple deep breaths and seeing that the two made it out of the Hub alive while gossiping about how their lives were going and how Dan, the other somewhat normal survivor, had hermit himself away on the edge of some quaint village with enough postcards and cats to live for the rest of his life comfortably until the price for postage rose to that of petrol one day.
Ianto crumpled into his chair in the Archives like a marionette without strings before he thought about his situation realistically. Kane Smirnov was a fairly tall, God damn giant in Ianto’s perspective, Russian man who worked as a liaison between Torchwood and UNIT back when Torchwood One stood. He had become Yvonne Hartman’s pet with the way he could manipulate anyone to his will with a few simple words and a look; the look. People who knew the man called it the look of Stalin. Behind his slim, towering figure was the same fierceness of the Soviet Union and with the same power backing him up in his unseen, but surely felt muscles. Kane rounded up files of interest to UNIT from the Torchwood Archives and gather alien tech that peaked Yvonne’s terrible curiosity.
When he looks back on it now, he can’t understand why he would date such a potentially dangerous man, but knew that it had to do with an intern manhandling an alien weapon in the Archives Research room and being slammed then rolled into a protective cocoon out of the way. Kane had basically wrapped his entire body around Ianto and, like a roll cage, took the force from the impact of the floor. A few lunch dates and meeting at pubs and romantic serenading with flowers and notes and chocolates at work waiting for him or on his front door to his apartment, and the two had become a couple, ignoring the warnings of Greg and Jamie and Lisa, who he later met and became good friends with, in his ear. Kane seemed to be an angel; Rough Russian accent with gentleman qualities of old and a romantic streak in him that many women’s romance novelists could only fictionally dream about.
However, that was before the two of them decided to move into a small flat not too far from the Torchwood One tower. Two weeks into their new little flat, and the Soviet-like beast arose from the dark. What Kane wanted, Kane got. He became overbearing, treating Ianto like a kitchen wench that did his bidding and when denied what he wanted, abusive; emotionally and physically. Kane was rough in his manner, words, between bed sheets, and love. Even the smallest smile from a stranger made Kane highly possessive. Ianto liked it in the beginning when Kane would get protective of him and almost animalistic when possessive, but once it got to the point where Ianto couldn’t even look at another person even when talking to them, did he became angry.
Over three months later, when Jamie and Lisa had caught him early in the Archivist’s bathroom in the back putting on skin correction lotion to hide a nasty bruise on his cheek, did he finally step back to view the mess. That evening, Jamie, Lisa, and Ianto packed up his belongings from the flat with Greg standing as guard at the entry way and carried it over to Lisa’s place. It had gotten nasty between the two men to the point that the Inter-Department Security and Human Relations had been involved and a restraint put on Kane, sending him back to UNIT. But now that Torchwood One was gone, nothing stood in Kane’s way besides the hard work Ianto had done to cover the tracks of the remaining Torchwood members to make them disappear from anyone looking.
He rubbed his tired eyes and locked himself for the rest of the day down in the Archives until the rest of the team, sans Jack of course, went home, only coming out for one more round of coffee and some notes for Tosh. Tosh being Tosh must have figured something was wrong, not that the deleted CCTV from earlier wasn’t a dead giveaway, since instead of a thank you, he was given a friendly hug.
Pulling off his tie and suit jacket as he went up the stairs to Jack’s office, he uncaringly dropped them wherever. He flung his waistcoat over the railing to land somewhere below among the clutter on Gwen’s desk. Without a care in the world, he unbuttoned the top two of his shirt and untucked it from his suit trousers. Trudging into Jack’s office, he spun Jack’s chair, with Jack in it, around to efficiently plop down into Jack’s lap with a huff.
Jack being Jack put two and two together to get seven thinking that a partially stripped Ianto in his lap was a gift from God which would lead to some very pleasant times until Ianto hid his face in the joint between neck and shoulder and powerful arms ensnared his shoulders. Jack always forgot how strong Ianto actually is under the professional suits and the calm demeanor, but whenever he is reminded of the hidden power under tidy clothes and artful masks, Jack envisions a sleek big cat, graceful and majestic until angered with large claws and mighty jaws. It made Jack shiver.
Brushing his fingers up Ianto’s spine to rub circles between his shoulder blades, Jack placed his lips against Ianto’s ear, whispering softly, “What’s wrong?”
Ianto huffs a breath that plays hell on Jack’s senses of angelic boyfriend to dirty lot lizard. Patiently waiting for Ianto to form the words that he normally spits as if rehearsed, Jack starts to wonder if he forgot something. Left the stove on? He isn’t allowed near the oven that doesn’t have a pilot light or made from cast iron. Forgot a dinner date? No, because he would have found half a dozen sticky notes in Boeshanian all over his sleeping space and boxer drawer. An anniversary? They never really had any and if they did celebrate, Jack was usually the one who instigated it. Oh God, another ex-?
“’m gonna stay in a hotel room for a bit.” Ianto whispered back. It was more lip reading with his neck than hearing the words.
“Why are you going to do that?” Jack started frowning. “You could just stay here.”
Ianto went silent again, just breathing and holding tight. Jack shifted him in his lap so he could try and see his face, but only succeeded in jostling Ianto to the point he bit down in warning. “C’mon, Yan.”
“An ex is in town and-“ Jack groaned before Ianto could finish.
“Oh shit, I knew it. Look, I’m sorry and I’ll deal with it as soon as I can. All I need you to do is tell me what they look like and I’ll-“ Ianto bit down again, harder this time gaining a yelp from Jack.
“My ex, Jack.” Jack stared at the wall as he tried to process the news. How the fuck could Lisa be back? She was dead. Like, dead dead. Like, Risen Mitten-proof dead. Which meant…
“No one important.” If Ianto kept getting quieter, he might as well start doing sign language or learn telepathy.
“But why are you leaving your flat because of an ex?” Jack normally thought ex’s weren’t that bad. However, he had in the past once or twice skipped planets to avoid his, but Ianto didn’t have that luxury nor should his ex be an alien from another planet that ate doors to enter places they should not be. Which had to mean that something went bad. So bad that it would rival picking up your stuff and moving into a too small hotel room on a too busy street with a too uncomfortable bed. That relationship went way too fucking bad if Ianto isn’t even considering he is a licensed gun holder who had to be born with a gun in his hand.
“It went bad at the end.” The sound of defeat and loathing and utterly complete I rather be eaten by cannibals made Jack step back to re-evaluate his idea of bad. This had to be the world is ending, I just married Satan’s spawn who breathes fire, lost my pathetic job of flipping burgers, am now a eunuch due to my monster-in-law, and my dog just got sick on my new couch. I am now going to go lay in the middle of traffic, kthxbye.
“What was bad?” Jack swallowed.
“Everything. Everything was bad, Jack. The relationship, the situation, bad news, bad break-up, badbadbad man. Everything.” Ianto’s voice fluttered up and down over the words as Jack remembered hearing about telephones and tin cans with bits of string.
He repositioned Ianto into a favorably more comfortable position in his lap as he pushed the chair back so the two of them were reclining nicely. Feeling the two arms tighten as if thinking Jack was going to get up and the press of a sharp eye tooth in his shoulder as warning, he returned his arms around Ianto’s waist and touched his cheek to Ianto’s temple. Minutes passed in the tensed atmosphere, but Jack’s curiosity won out and he was expecting the cat to die, but he wanted to know.
“Why was he bad?”
Ianto’s shoulders jerked as if laughing or crying or both. “Bastard thought he could knock me around. He thought I’d play his little kitchen wench that stayed at home and would hang by his every word as if he was God or something.” Ianto laughed dryly. “Can you believe that shit?”
Only in his wildest fantasies that Jack would not mention on penalty of death. Many, many deaths. And maybe torture. Watching children’s musical television shows type torture for every waking minute of the day. And night.
Jack responded by tightening his arms. Someone dared to hit his Yan while posing to love him? Growling deep within his chest that had to reverberate into Ianto, he asked simply, “How long?” So I can make the bastard suffer that long.
Silence was his only response. Deathly silence.
He quickly bent his head down so that his teeth grazed Ianto’s ear and his arms became bounds, whispering fiercely, “How long, sweetheart?”
“We lived together for about three months or so.” He furrowed deeper into Jack’s neck and shoulder.
“How long ago was this? What does he want? Why is he here?” Jack quickly stepped into the role of interrogator with Ianto as the witness.
“Christ, Jack, I don’t know! We were together back in Torchwood One. He wants to patch things up again. Get his little foot maid back. I don’t know. One last fling? Here to demand another roll in between sheets. I just don’t know and I’m not finding out.” Ianto shook his shoulders now, definitely not in laughter. His body shuddered and remained relaxed. It made Jack’s blood boil at the thought. His Yan in bed with another man who physically hurt him. His Yan. “No, Jack. Don’t. Please. Just… Just stay away. Stay with me.”
Jack could never go against that broken tone Ianto used when he felt defeated and dead. Tucking the younger man up into his arms, Jack carefully stood up making sure to support all of Ianto’s weight. The young man deserved a more comfortable bed then what Jack’s sleep space offered, but for now it would have to do. With practiced ease, Jack got them both down his ladder with one arm and Ianto still coddled in his hold safely.
In the twilight hours of the morning, he decided that Ianto wouldn’t leave the safety of the Hub until the threat was taken care of, so he would have to run over to Ianto’s flat to pick up his daily necessities. Leaving the man in their bed wrapped in blankets and surrounded by pillows, Jack snuck out like a shadow.
Once arriving at the flat though, alarms rung in his head and his hair stood on end. The door was slightly ajar and no sounds were heard. He pulled his gun out of its holster as he silently counted to five and tapped the door open further. Poking his head into the hallway, nothing seemed to be out of place. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, careful not to get any of the floor boards to creak under him. He sensed the incoming danger before he could see it, but by that time, he gun was knocked to the floor and he had a powerful forearm pressed to his throat against the wall.
“Privet! You are not the one I am looking for.” Furious blue eyes drilled into Jack’s. He was so close that Jack could see the lilac specks in them in the dim light from the hallway outside the flat. The man’s face moved closer and sniffed him near his neck. “Ah, but you smell like my little sparrow.” The eyes narrowed.
Jack growled and tried to fight the hold, but was too tightly pressed to make a difference. “How did you get in here?”
The man shrugged. “Little bird had taught me some tricks he picked up as a small one. Come now though! We have not made formal introductions.” The pressure on his throat increased. “Hopefully my little sparrow has better taste in men than those with no manners.”
Jack tried to lunge again off the wall just to be slammed back into it. He barred his teeth with a rumble making its way from chest to throat. “He is not yours and you’re one to talk about manners.”
The pressure was making it hard to breathe and the glint in the other man’s eyes promised a violent outcome. Smirking, the man leaned closer, invading Jack’s space, “Ianto Jones belongs to me and you had better run away and never look back. Because,” And the man jammed a knee into Jack’s abdomen, “I will make sure I get back what rightfully belongs to me.” He jerked Jack into the end table’s lamp, sending him across the floor in a shower of glass. Jack was too busy gasping for air and pain to reply, “My name is Kane Smirnov and I am here to take my property home. I will find my Ianto, with or without hurting you further. Your choice.”
But by the time Jack pushed himself up, the man was gone and a calling card lay on the coffee table. A single red bird decorated it.