Memento Mori - part three
Feb. 5th, 2011 09:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
snarklyboojumLink to previous part.
“Come on. There’s a weevil loose in Bute Park and I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
Ianto shrugs the stranger off, turning back to the table. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“For fuck’s sake Ianto, I don’t have time for this.” He grabs Ianto again, twisting him around until he can reach into his inner jacket pocket. The PDA almost disappears inside his huge hand but Ianto sees it go.
“Give me back the Guide! Give it!” The arsehole dodges his punches easily, playing keep-away from Ianto like he’s a child. Ianto rugby tackles him, falling in a tangle of limbs and curses onto the linoleum.
“You’ll get it back once we’re in the car.” Ianto gets a good elbow in. “Below the belt! That’s cheating!”
He’s just gotten the man’s wrist in his teeth when someone drags them off each other. One of the men from a few tables away has a death grip on Ianto’s waist and another hauls the stranger to his feet. There’s a very irate waitress fuming off to the side. “Take it outside, Jack! Christ, what’s gotten into the two of you?”
The man – Jack, apparently – waves the PDA teasingly. “We were just leaving. Weren’t we, Ianto?”
Ianto glares but grabs his messenger bag and follows him outside. The cool air feels good on his flushed face so he takes a moment to adjust the lay of his suit, breathing deeply to calm down.
Jack’s waiting by a black monstrosity of a car. He glares pointedly at Ianto. “Keys?”
Ianto feels around in his left trouser pocket – sure enough, there’s a set of keys with a security alarm button that matches the color of the SUV. He waves them at Jack, teasingly.
Jack just stares back dully. Ianto rolls his eyes and unlocks the doors with the button, unsurprised when Jack takes the driver’s side. Going around the car he sees TORCHWOOD embossed on the side. So much for secrecy. He slides into the passenger seat and does up the seat belt, eyeing the man next to him.
Jack sighs and hands over the Guide. Ianto grins and throws the keys carelessly in his direction, thumbing the screen off sleep mode. Jack growls but digs the ring from between the seats and starts the engine.
Ianto reacquaints himself with his baby, checking to make sure no damage was done in the scuffle. He breathes a sigh of relief; everything looks fine. He minimizes the search program to run in the background and looks for information on the arsehole that tried to steal his PDA and is currently driving them who-knows-where. There’s only one “Jack” listed in his private gallery and that’s the leader of Torchwood Three, of all the random people. The picture in the file matches the driver, except he’s grinning like a movie star for the camera and nothing but grim seriousness behind the wheel. The caption under the picture is strange: CPT Jack Harkness, leader T3 Cardiff - Don’t believe his lies.
He snorts. That much was obvious.
They drive on in tense silence, Jack gripping the wheel with both hands and Ianto studying the files on his PDA. Two red lights and an ignored Give Way sign later is apparently all the quiet Jack can stand. Trying to sound casual (but failing tremendously) he leans forward to tap the screen of the PDA.
“So why do you call that thing The Guide, anyway? You never said.”
Ianto rolls his eyes. “Have you ever asked? Watch the road.”
Jack slumps back against his seat, blithely unaware that signaling was customary before changing lanes. Ianto watches him drive for a moment before turning back to archived files. “Lisa liked Douglas Adams.”
Jack frowns but doesn’t respond. Ianto can only assume he doesn’t get the reference. Illiterate American. “He wrote The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. You know. 'Always know where your towel is; never let a Vogon read you poetry; the ultimate answer is 42'?” He sighs. “I told her it was stupid to read science fiction about aliens when we worked at an agency responsible for monitoring alien life in Britain, but she wouldn’t listen. She said it was important to remember that not everything was as it seemed. That things could be absurd and brilliant at the same time.”
He runs his fingers over the screen one more time. Don’t panic. Most days it was hard to believe she was right about the world, that the beautiful outweighed the terrible. The Guide helped remind him of her. Of his purpose.
“That’s true about the poetry, you know,” Jack offers. Ianto ignores him.
Bute Park isn’t so far away from the restaurant that the rest of the drive is unbearable. Ianto just submerges himself in thoughts of Lisa until Jack stops the car. When he glances up he sees that they’re parked on the lawn itself, the moon popping in and out of the clouds lending the public space an eerie atmosphere.
Jack leans over the gear stick to scrounge in the glove box, eventually coming up with some mace and industrial twisty ties. His knuckles graze Ianto’s thighs when he closes the hatch, causing them both to jump.
“What are you doing?”
“Hunting aliens.” Either Jack really is as dense as Ianto thought or he’s deliberately misunderstanding the question. He shoves the twisty ties into his trouser pocket, bulging out the cotton. Ianto can’t help but think a shoulder bag would be better suited, or at least a coat with big pockets. “You stay here. I don’t want you wandering around in the dark.”
“I’m perfectly capable of protecting myself, thank you. If this alien’s so tough then shouldn’t you be armed with more than plastic and pepper spray?”
Jack smirks. “Weevils aren’t so bad. They’ve a nasty disposition and a vicious right hook, but if you find one the spray still works on then they’re controllable. To a point. If all else fails you can always shoot them.”
The smile melts from his face when Ianto doesn’t respond. He pokes him in the shoulder to get his attention again. “I mean it. Stay. Here. We need to talk when I get back.”
He slams the car door when he leaves, likely alerting the very alien he’s searching for to his presence. Ianto’s eyes are in danger of rolling right out of his head.
After a moment he sighs and settles in for the long haul. He checks a few files on his PDA, brings up the search program and watches the progress bar run. No mutated blood cells in the area. No time travelers. No companions.
What the hell was he doing wasting time sitting in the middle of Bute Park waiting for a crazy Torchwood Captain in period costume to finish fighting aliens so that they could chat about something he probably doesn’t want to talk about in the first place? Surely he had better things to do.
He contemplates stealing the car for a moment, but damn if Jack didn’t take the keys. He could just get out and walk away: leave Torchwood and all this madness behind. But the search program’s still running, parameters expanding with every sweep. There are no resources available to him, other than this.
The tattoo on his wrist is visible in the light of the Guide’s screen. Trust Torchwood.
He sighs and opens Solitaire. Ianto’s just beaten his high score when he hears a commotion in the trees.
* * *
You find the book at the bottom of the messenger bag, under some dirty laundry. The first entry is dated a few weeks after the Battle and doesn’t make any sense, talking about prisons and morphine and someone named Jack. You must have still been bleary from the head wound, therapists and doctors suggesting the diary would be good for arranging your thoughts.
There are bright pink post-it notes sticking out from the pages with the words “READ ME” along the edge. The first bookmarks an entry with a single name: Nathaniel Cleer. Below it you’ve written, “Companion Number One”.
Wait. You found one? You actually found a companion? Why didn’t you remember that?
The second note is just a few pages beyond the first. Another name. Another “Companion Number One”. There is no date, but the writing is your own.
The third page is filled with text. Certain passages have been circled in red ink: “The Guide led me to a man in a pub. Just some man. I talked to him first. He said he didn’t know anything about the Doctor but he did ask how Suzie was doing. Who’s Suzie? I don’t understand - the man wasn’t a companion, why would he have mutated blood cells? I don’t want to hurt anyone but I can’t let him get away.”
The diary falls open to the fourth bookmark without you having to stop it, the pages stuck together and brown spots smearing the ink. You can’t actually read any of the words, the scribbles warped and twisted in on themselves.
You almost don’t want to see the last marked entry, but you can’t really help yourself. You flip to the back of the book, hands shaking.
“Jesus!”
There’s a photograph taped to the page; a Polaroid of a dead body, knife sticking grotesquely out of its chest. The words below it are eerily clear compared to the previous entry, like they were drafted with a ruler. “I don’t think the Doctor is coming. I don’t think this world can be saved. I think this is hell.” And scrawled below, in different colored ink, are the words “I’m so sorry.”
There’s another post-it stuck over the corner of the photo, text written in the same ink as the circled passages earlier in the diary: “I’ve labeled a copy of this picture as COMP4 on the desktop of the PDA. If Torchwood is altering the Guide it will not be there when next I read this.”
You grab the Guide from the bed, mashing the keys and waking up the screen. It tells you not to panic, in large friendly letters, but there is no COMP4 on the desktop. No trace of Nathaniel Cleer or any of the other names. No proof that you aren’t a murderer.
You panic. It passes after a moment, leaving you sweating and heaving into the toilet bowl. The porcelain is cool on your cheek so you lay there, staring at the Guide still clutched in your hand. The search program icon is blinking in the corner of the screen, repeating the address of the found companion.
Back in the bedroom you take a fresh piece of paper from the pad, choosing your words carefully: “Things are not what they seem. Do not trust Torchwood. There is no companion.”
You put the note in your right trouser pocket, gather your things into the messenger bag, and call for a taxi. It’s time to get some answers.
* * *
Ianto’s just turned left when the Guide vibrates in his pocket, the pleasant ding alerting him to an appointment alarm. Carefully maneuvering the SUV through traffic with one hand and opening the calendar application with the other, he’s pleased to see it’s time for dinner. While he’s not terribly hungry it was always a good idea to get a meal in when possible – he has the unfortunate habit of not eating when stressed.
Coffee is not a food group, he thinks, and parks at the first restaurant he sees – a rundown pub by the quay, a local favorite from the looks of the crowd outside the door. He makes his way to the only open table in the back, far away from the entrance. A waitress comes over, smiling when she sees him.
“Ianto! You haven’t been by in ages. Jack not with you tonight?”
Who’s Jack? Ianto is fairly certain he’s never seen the girl before and the pub is completely unfamiliar. Still, she’s looking at him expectantly, eyes twinkling from the neon sign on the wall behind her. He shakes his head, smiling pleasantly but unable to meet her gaze for very long.
She winks at him. “That’s a shame. You two are always good for business; get’s the singles all a flutter. Shall I bring you your usual, then?”
He nods again and she’s off with a flip of her ponytail, disappearing into the crowd. Ianto pulls the Guide out of his pocket and runs a search. No note of the pub or the waitress, and the only ‘Jack’ is Captain Jack Harkness, leader of Torchwood Cardiff.
“Don’t believe his lies,” he reads aloud. Interesting.
His ‘usual’ turns out to be fish and chips, the staple of every Welshman’s diet and surprisingly delicious for a hole-in-the-wall tavern. The food hits his belly with the warm satisfaction of a job well done and he tucks in greedily, soaking everything in just the right amount of vinegar. Once he’s finished (and has wiped the grease from his fingers) he adds an entry to the Guide recommending the pub for future meals.
He’s halfway through a second pint when a man in period military clothing drops heavily into the seat across from him. There’s a hardness to his face that has Ianto immediately on edge. “Hiya, Yan. Surprised to see me?”
“That’s one way to put it. And don’t call me Yan. My girlfriend called me that.”
“How cute.”
“I hated it. If I wouldn’t let her get away with it then I’m certainly not going to let you.” Whoever you are.
The man grins, wide and gleaming in the dark of the pub. “Sorry. I would have been here sooner but I had to walk back to the Hub for a change of clothes. And the tracker for the SUV, of course. That was a nice touch.”
Ianto has no idea what the man’s talking about but feels distinctly uncomfortable about the way he’s looking at him. It’s an intense stare, scratching away the layers of Ianto’s calm to pick at the frayed nerves just under his skin. It makes Ianto feel like he’s done something wrong.
The waitress slides up to the table, setting a pint of water in front of the stranger. She seems happily surprised to see him. “Heya, Jack! I thought you finally let this one slip your grip.” She bumps his shoulder with her hip, winking at Ianto again. “Was thinking about snatching him up for myself. Can I get you anything? Your usual?”
“Nothing for me tonight, Claire. Thank you.” He doesn’t look up at her flirtation, just continues to stare at Ianto. She shrugs and takes away Ianto’s empty plate.
He knows the man now, thanks to Claire The Waitress and a handy entry in his Guide. But what was he doing meeting with the Captain Jack in a nowhere pub often enough to be recognized by the staff?
Ianto tries to mask the confusion from his face, but either he’s slipping or Jack knows him better than he should. He nods in the direction of the waitress. “You know who she is?”
Ianto shakes his head.
“What about me? Do you remember me?”
He hesitates then shakes his head again. “I’m sorry. I have this condition-“
“I know all about your condition, Ianto! Jesus Christ.” He bends over the table, resting his head in his hands.
Ianto toys with his beer, wiping a finger through the condensation on the glass. He has no point of reference for what’s bothering Jack, and no desire to comfort him. For all he knows this could be an elaborate ruse to gain his trust. After all, the Guide did tell him not to believe his lies.
But, then again, there’s a tattoo on the hand holding the glass telling him to Trust Torchwood. The same Torchwood that nurtured the ghost shifts and allowed the destruction of Canary Wharf. The same Torchwood that caused Lisa to suffer and die. It was all very confusing.
Jack runs his hands through his hair, digging his fingers into his scalp and pulling at the strands until they stick straight up. “I don’t know what to do here, Ianto. You were doing so well that when you stopped coming around I didn’t think anything of it and now… five people are dead.” He snorts, humorlessly. “Well, technically six.”
He certainly has Ianto’s full attention now. “What are you talking about? Who’s dead?”
Jack drops his hands to the table, spilling some of the water from his glass. “This is my fault. When I gave you the assignment to track down the Doctor I never thought it would end like this. You were just supposed to find a pattern, figure out when he’d be likely to show. Find a way I could contact him. Not-”
“A way you could contact him? What the hell are you talking about, Jack? How do you know the Doctor?” There were rumors at London about Captain Jack, mostly of the adult variety. But there were a few researchers that suspected Jack of being older than he looked, maybe even a time-traveler himself. If he knew the Doctor…
“It doesn’t matter now.” Jack looks more tired than when he sat down, the anger draining away to leave his eyes empty. Determined, but empty. “I don’t believe you’re capable of doing something like this, not without someone else pushing you into it. We need to find out how you got to this point and where the hell you got that knife.”
What knife? This discussion is seriously starting to freak Ianto out. He puts on a brave face, hoping to catch the man in a bluff or intimidate him enough so that he’ll leave. “I’m capable of making my own decisions, Jack. And I don’t like what you’re implying here. In fact, I think it’s time you-”
Jack sits up like a dog at point, holding a hand to his ear. There’s a little blue light there Ianto never noticed before, though the device causing it doesn’t look like any Bluetooth he’s familiar with. Jack listens for a moment and then slumps in his seat. “Bad timing, Owen. All right, send the coordinates to the SUV’s sat nav. I’ll take care of it.”
He stands, grabbing Ianto by the shoulder. “Come on. There’s a weevil loose in Bute Park and I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
* * *
There’s a woman waiting for you in the empty warehouse. Tall and thin, there’s cunning in her gaze that sets your nerves on edge; like a fox guarding the henhouse. She looks as though she’s good at keeping secrets.
“You’re late. I almost thought you weren’t going to show.” She takes a step toward you, face covered in shadow. “I’ve arranged everything. The companion will be here any minute; I need to leave before he sees me. Here.” She pulls a wicked looking blade out of her bag, offering the handle. “Use this to do it. The metal has temporal properties that will resonate through the Rift. It should help the message get through. Hide it after and send me a message to come get it.”
Her other hand grips yours, tightening around where your fingers hold the knife. She tugs a little, forcing you to look at her. “This is important, Ianto. Do not let this knife fall into the wrong hands. Understand? Here’s a note telling you what to do. Put it in your pocket. Do it now.”
You nod and take the note, glancing at the phone number and instructions. The knife is surprisingly light in your grip, warm where her hands were cold.
She cups your jaw, short nails scratching against the late-day stubble there. “Remember what you’re doing this for, Ianto. Remember Lisa.” She backs away, glancing nervously out the window to the dark car park outside. “Jack should be here any minute. I’ll be watching on the CCTV. Just follow the instructions on the note and don’t forget to-“
You grab her arm, cutting off her exit. She frowns and jerks away.
“I already have a note. Found it in my trouser pocket on the way over. And I’m far more inclined to follow its instructions instead of yours.” You fish the paper out of your pocket - there is no companion – and toss it in her direction.
She catches it out of the air, a smirk curling her lips as she reads. You drop her note on the floor and tighten your grip on the knife. “Who are you really? Why does Torchwood want me to kill someone with this knife?”
“Because we want to help you, Ianto. Don’t you remember?”
You raise your arm, blade hovering a few inches from the soft skin of her neck. The metal almost sings as it moves through the air.
Maybe there is something special about it.
The woman tilts her head, body going soft and slinky against the threat of violence in front of her. “You’re not going to hurt me, Ianto. You’re not a killer.” Her grin is sudden and a little mad. “That’s what makes you so good at it. You’re the perfect scapegoat. So suggestible. Like a doll.”
A chill creeps down your spine. You suddenly want to be very far away from here. “What are you talking about?”
She runs a thin hand down the edge of the blade, slowly, like a lover. “I’m talking about my glove, Ianto. You’ve been so very helpful in providing specimens for me to practice with. I’m so close, just one or two more and I’ll have it.” A bead of blood blossoms on her finger – your hand is shaking – and she raises it to her mouth. Her voice is casual as she sucks on the digit. “Thanks in advance for killing Jack, by the way. He was really getting to be a real pain about things. Asking too many questions.
“You’re right, you know. I made the whole thing up. I took what Jack started and twisted it for myself. It was very selfish of him to keep you for his own pet projects and not share.” She laughs a little, grimly. “The ironic thing is that you already have found a companion. You just don’t know it yet.”
It occurs to you that the woman might be stalling for time, waiting for your memory to lapse. If she’s telling the truth then she’s been manipulating you for weeks. Or is she lying? God, what has she made you do?
Why did you give her your note? You could have held onto it and at least had a reminder. A reminder…
It’s hard to reach the Guide with your left hand, arm folding awkwardly in on itself. You glance from her to the screen, quickly creating a new file on the desktop. She takes a step forward while your eyes are down; you gasp and step back, waving the knife wildly.
She raises her hands and tilts her head, watching you panic. Then she laughs, a grim chuckle, and motions to the Guide with her chin. “I know what you’re trying to do, Ianto. Pathetic. Go ahead, make yourself a little note. I’ll just delete it when I get back to the Hub. It’s not like Jack will be there to stop me.
“Do you remember Jack, Ianto? You should - you’ve only been fucking each other blind the past month and a half.”
“Shut up.” What meant to be a shout is a whisper instead, scraping between your teeth. “I would never-“
“But you don’t know, do you? You could do anything and not remember it, even fuck a man instead of your precious Lisa. Tell me, do you ever feel guilty for no reason? Ever feel sad? Ever wonder what really happened that night in London? This wouldn’t be the first time you’ve done something and not remembered it. Like Lisa, and the morphine, and that long drive to Cardiff.”
You type blindly with your left hand, hoping like hell it makes some sort of sense. “Shut up. Shut up.”
“I’m impressed you made it, to be honest. Especially in the state you were in. Remember the explosion? The screaming?”
Oh god. Oh god.
Somewhere outside a car door slams, echoing like a gunshot through the empty warehouse. You both jerk at the sound, turning to look out the window. There’s a man in a greatcoat standing next to a large SUV. He looks around once and makes his way to the front of the warehouse.
The woman is suddenly far too close, brushing her lips against your cheek and tightening your hand around something warm and metallic.
* * *
The woman is suddenly far too close, brushing her lips against his cheek and tightening his hand around something warm and metallic.
“This is it, Ianto. He’s the one,” she whispers in his ear. “Kill him to bring her back. Use the knife.” And she vanishes into the dark of the warehouse before Ianto can ask her name or what she means. Though there’s really only one thing she could mean…
There’s a man coming through the door, keeping to the shadows along the wall. Ianto tucks the knife carefully into his messenger bag, angling his body so his movements aren’t immediately visible. His whole body is shaking and there’s the sour taste of fear in the back of his throat.
The Guide is in his other hand, curser blinking in an open file. The text is garbled but certain words are clear: shecrsaazy jack nocompanion not fon’ttrusttorchwooos helpgtgelp
Companion. Oh god, this was it. Was he really going through with this?
“Ianto? What are you doing here?”
The stranger’s in period military clothing, gorgeous great-coat fanning behind him like wings. His accent sounds American, though it’s a little hard to tell exactly where he’s from. Ianto tucks the Guide back into his pocket and steps closer.
“What’s your name?”
The man blinks, broad shoulders slumping ever so slightly. “Jack. I’m Jack, Ianto.” He takes a deep breath, looking around the room. “Funny seeing you here. We got an anonymous tip from this location not twenty minutes after I talked to you. You hung up so quickly I never got the chance to ask what was bothering you.”
Ianto tightens his grip on the knife, the metal warm against his palm. “I’m sorry, Jack.”
He nods. “I was worried, Ianto. And now I find you where a killer’s meant to be. You’re not—“
“No, I’m sorry about this.”
The knife sings through the air, the arc of his arm pushing it straight into Jack’s side. White noise fills his ears for a moment - a burst of heat behind his eyes, palm tingling – and then Jack’s falling off the blade, blood pouring out of the hole in his coat.
Ianto stands there, staring, trying to comprehend what he’s just done. The blood is really coming out now, staining the concrete around the body. (The body, oh god.) Oddly enough, the knife is clean in his hand, as if it consumed the drops clinging to the blade. But that would be ridiculous, wouldn’t it?
He sets the knife next to his messenger bag on a clean bit of floor and calls up the camera application on the Guide. A simple click and it’s there forever, pixelated evidence that he’s a murderer. He hopes the Doctor comes soon; he’s not sure how much longer he can stand the roiling in his guts.
He saves the image to the desktop under “Jack, Companion #1” and tucks the Guide back into his jacket pocket. The warehouse is fairly off the beaten path so the body might not be discovered for some time. He feels terrible leaving it lay there exposed to the elements, though he supposes any respect he gives the corpse is moot considering he was responsible for its death in the first place. Still, best to hide it away in a corner just in case.
He’s steeled himself to grab hold of the corpse’s ankles when it jerks back to life, sitting up and gasping out a scream.
Ianto falls backward, screaming himself. Fucking hell! He flails around quickly for something to protect himself. The knife is too far away for any help, but there’s something dully gleaming at the – what, zombie? Jesus – the body’s belt. It’s a holster.
Jack is bent over his side, coughing up blood and clutching at the wound through the thick fabric of his coat. Ianto darts in, lightning quick, and grabs the gun from him before he can react. He stands shakily, holding the gun with both hands.
Jack coughs one more time, wiping his mouth with a sleeve. “The fuck? Ianto, did you just stab me?” He pulls the coat away from his side, running a hand along the tear in his shirt. The skin underneath is red and wet, but sealed shut.
“What are you? You were dead! I watched you die!” His vision wavers at the edges and Ianto feels very close to a nervous breakdown. Maybe this is all a hallucination. Maybe his condition has finally driven him insane. Maybe he’s still in the Tower, trapped under a conversion unit and bleeding out from a head wound.
But no, the sweat dripping into his eyes and the heavy smell of blood in the air suggest a reality he doesn’t want to contemplate, one where corpses rise and Ianto is their murderer. The Doctor never came. This is a different kind of madness.
Jack rises slowly, stretching the muscles in his back. “I can’t die, at least not for long; I really don’t want to have that conversation with you again. Wait-” He straightens, eyes wide and staring accusingly at Ianto. “You’re the killer? Five bodies stabbed to death with a blade of extraterrestrial origin –that was you? I don’t believe it. Ianto, what were you thinking?”
Five… What was he talking about? Jack is the first companion Ianto’s found; he would have made a note, a tattoo, if there had been others. “I…” He shifts his stance, backing away from the other man until he stumbles over his bag. His voice is small, a whisper echoing through the darkness. “If I alter the timeline enough then the Doctor will come to fix it. It’ll be like it never happened.”
Jack’s presence is huge in the room, taking up the space Ianto would gladly give away. “And so five people had to die? What was their connection, Ianto? Why were they so important to the universe that you wouldn’t let them live?”
“I - I don’t… The Guide…”
“Jesus. You have no idea what you’ve done, do you? No idea of the lives you ruined.” He steps closer, boots sticking to the gummy floor. Ianto flinches, gripping the gun between them. Jack doesn’t seem aware that Ianto took it from him; he’s shocked – and very angry.
“This was supposed to be simple. This was supposed to be something to keep your mind occupied, to give you something to work on. If it followed my own ends, then so what?” He shakes his head, snarling. “I should have kept you locked up when I had the chance. You’re too dangerous to be kept among normal people.”
Ianto shakes his own head, heartbeat pounding in his ears. Jack advances further still, voice a low growl. “I never should have trusted you. Not after you brought that Cyberwoman to the Hub.”
Ianto’s blood runs cold. “Excuse me?”
“We found you after the Battle in a stolen truck on the Plass, covered in retcon dust and damn-near comatose next to a conversion unit and your dead girlfriend. You led her right to us, Ianto.”
He shakes his head again, Jack’s words not making any sense. “No.”
“She was only half-converted. There were empty morphine bottles all over the truck. You must have dosed her over and over again, trying to stop the pain.” Jack paces forward, leaning into Ianto’s space. “You could have killed everyone. But instead, you just killed her. You were too fucked up to even get that right.”
Fire reflecting in the metallic wetness of her cheek, powdery grit falling from his hair onto her face. Ash and retcon in his mouth.
“No. No, you’re wrong. Lisa died in the conversion machine. The Cybermen killed her. Not me.”
Jack snorts. “You’ve been lying to yourself all along, Ianto. Why should now be any different?” He leans back, rubbing his neck and laughing. There’s no humor in the sound. “You were so sincere, so... I thought you should have a chance to be something other than a victim. And here you were never a victim at all.”
His voice turns mocking, imitating Ianto’s accent poorly. “I just need a purpose, Jack. Give me something to hold on to. Well, fuck you, Ianto Jones. There’s no going back from this. This is too much, even for me to—“
“Can you really not die?”
“What?” Jack blinks, caught off guard.
Ianto’s voice is quiet after Jack’s yelling, but steady, his decision made. “Can you really not stay dead? Was that the truth?”
“What does that have to do with—“
The gunshot recoils up Ianto’s arm, a perfect dark circle disturbing the shock on Jack’s face. Ianto watches him crumble, body hitting the concrete with a dull thud. He shoots him twice more, in the chest and the knee, assuming it will take him longer to recover if there’s more damage to heal. It won’t hold him for long…unless he has to walk out of here covered in blood and exit wounds. Ianto’s hand doesn’t shake when he fishes the car keys out of Jack’s pocket. Hopefully taking Jack’s transportation will buy enough time for Ianto to get a head start.
He pauses on the way out the door, inhaling great lungfuls of clean night air. The keys in his hand match the SUV in the car park and Ianto turns over the motor, letting the engine heat up. He hides the knife between boxes of alien technology in the back of the SUV, hesitating to throw it away.
He shows no compunction with the rest of his belongings, spilling the messenger bag onto the passenger seat. Most of it is harmless everyday items – those he returns to their rightful place. There’s a diary he’s never seen before with READ ME on little post-it notes scattered through the pages. He flips through the book, shudders, and tosses the whole thing out the window into a puddle. The gun he stuffs into an empty pocket on the side of the bag, just in case.
The Guide is more delicate and needs a little more attention. He erases the unnamed file saved on the desktop and every mention of the man in the warehouse, even from the copied Archive files. He keeps only one; a candid photo of Jack smiling at the camera saved in his private image gallery. He changes the caption to read: CPT Jack Harkness, leader T3 Cardiff - Don’t believe his lies.
There. Now he’ll be ready when he and Jack find one another again. And he has no doubt that they will; Ianto’s search program will detect the altered blood cells in Jack’s body and Jack will use CCTV and the on-board sat nav to locate his stolen car. It was as good as destiny.
He returns the PDA to its pocket and shakes out his hands, fixing his hair in the rear view mirror. If Ianto’s life is a lie, he should make it a good one. Jack was right – everyone needed a purpose. Why couldn’t this be his? It wasn’t like he was hurting anyone by it, not really. Jack reset after every death, back to the beginning in the blink of an eye.
Just like Ianto.
He releases the parking brake and pulls out of the lot, carefully driving over the diary where it lies in the dirt. Behind him he imagines Jack waking with a gasp, the sound echoing through the lonely dark.
Time to get back to business, Ianto thinks, and turns left.
“Come on. There’s a weevil loose in Bute Park and I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
Ianto shrugs the stranger off, turning back to the table. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“For fuck’s sake Ianto, I don’t have time for this.” He grabs Ianto again, twisting him around until he can reach into his inner jacket pocket. The PDA almost disappears inside his huge hand but Ianto sees it go.
“Give me back the Guide! Give it!” The arsehole dodges his punches easily, playing keep-away from Ianto like he’s a child. Ianto rugby tackles him, falling in a tangle of limbs and curses onto the linoleum.
“You’ll get it back once we’re in the car.” Ianto gets a good elbow in. “Below the belt! That’s cheating!”
He’s just gotten the man’s wrist in his teeth when someone drags them off each other. One of the men from a few tables away has a death grip on Ianto’s waist and another hauls the stranger to his feet. There’s a very irate waitress fuming off to the side. “Take it outside, Jack! Christ, what’s gotten into the two of you?”
The man – Jack, apparently – waves the PDA teasingly. “We were just leaving. Weren’t we, Ianto?”
Ianto glares but grabs his messenger bag and follows him outside. The cool air feels good on his flushed face so he takes a moment to adjust the lay of his suit, breathing deeply to calm down.
Jack’s waiting by a black monstrosity of a car. He glares pointedly at Ianto. “Keys?”
Ianto feels around in his left trouser pocket – sure enough, there’s a set of keys with a security alarm button that matches the color of the SUV. He waves them at Jack, teasingly.
Jack just stares back dully. Ianto rolls his eyes and unlocks the doors with the button, unsurprised when Jack takes the driver’s side. Going around the car he sees TORCHWOOD embossed on the side. So much for secrecy. He slides into the passenger seat and does up the seat belt, eyeing the man next to him.
Jack sighs and hands over the Guide. Ianto grins and throws the keys carelessly in his direction, thumbing the screen off sleep mode. Jack growls but digs the ring from between the seats and starts the engine.
Ianto reacquaints himself with his baby, checking to make sure no damage was done in the scuffle. He breathes a sigh of relief; everything looks fine. He minimizes the search program to run in the background and looks for information on the arsehole that tried to steal his PDA and is currently driving them who-knows-where. There’s only one “Jack” listed in his private gallery and that’s the leader of Torchwood Three, of all the random people. The picture in the file matches the driver, except he’s grinning like a movie star for the camera and nothing but grim seriousness behind the wheel. The caption under the picture is strange: CPT Jack Harkness, leader T3 Cardiff - Don’t believe his lies.
He snorts. That much was obvious.
They drive on in tense silence, Jack gripping the wheel with both hands and Ianto studying the files on his PDA. Two red lights and an ignored Give Way sign later is apparently all the quiet Jack can stand. Trying to sound casual (but failing tremendously) he leans forward to tap the screen of the PDA.
“So why do you call that thing The Guide, anyway? You never said.”
Ianto rolls his eyes. “Have you ever asked? Watch the road.”
Jack slumps back against his seat, blithely unaware that signaling was customary before changing lanes. Ianto watches him drive for a moment before turning back to archived files. “Lisa liked Douglas Adams.”
Jack frowns but doesn’t respond. Ianto can only assume he doesn’t get the reference. Illiterate American. “He wrote The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. You know. 'Always know where your towel is; never let a Vogon read you poetry; the ultimate answer is 42'?” He sighs. “I told her it was stupid to read science fiction about aliens when we worked at an agency responsible for monitoring alien life in Britain, but she wouldn’t listen. She said it was important to remember that not everything was as it seemed. That things could be absurd and brilliant at the same time.”
He runs his fingers over the screen one more time. Don’t panic. Most days it was hard to believe she was right about the world, that the beautiful outweighed the terrible. The Guide helped remind him of her. Of his purpose.
“That’s true about the poetry, you know,” Jack offers. Ianto ignores him.
Bute Park isn’t so far away from the restaurant that the rest of the drive is unbearable. Ianto just submerges himself in thoughts of Lisa until Jack stops the car. When he glances up he sees that they’re parked on the lawn itself, the moon popping in and out of the clouds lending the public space an eerie atmosphere.
Jack leans over the gear stick to scrounge in the glove box, eventually coming up with some mace and industrial twisty ties. His knuckles graze Ianto’s thighs when he closes the hatch, causing them both to jump.
“What are you doing?”
“Hunting aliens.” Either Jack really is as dense as Ianto thought or he’s deliberately misunderstanding the question. He shoves the twisty ties into his trouser pocket, bulging out the cotton. Ianto can’t help but think a shoulder bag would be better suited, or at least a coat with big pockets. “You stay here. I don’t want you wandering around in the dark.”
“I’m perfectly capable of protecting myself, thank you. If this alien’s so tough then shouldn’t you be armed with more than plastic and pepper spray?”
Jack smirks. “Weevils aren’t so bad. They’ve a nasty disposition and a vicious right hook, but if you find one the spray still works on then they’re controllable. To a point. If all else fails you can always shoot them.”
The smile melts from his face when Ianto doesn’t respond. He pokes him in the shoulder to get his attention again. “I mean it. Stay. Here. We need to talk when I get back.”
He slams the car door when he leaves, likely alerting the very alien he’s searching for to his presence. Ianto’s eyes are in danger of rolling right out of his head.
After a moment he sighs and settles in for the long haul. He checks a few files on his PDA, brings up the search program and watches the progress bar run. No mutated blood cells in the area. No time travelers. No companions.
What the hell was he doing wasting time sitting in the middle of Bute Park waiting for a crazy Torchwood Captain in period costume to finish fighting aliens so that they could chat about something he probably doesn’t want to talk about in the first place? Surely he had better things to do.
He contemplates stealing the car for a moment, but damn if Jack didn’t take the keys. He could just get out and walk away: leave Torchwood and all this madness behind. But the search program’s still running, parameters expanding with every sweep. There are no resources available to him, other than this.
The tattoo on his wrist is visible in the light of the Guide’s screen. Trust Torchwood.
He sighs and opens Solitaire. Ianto’s just beaten his high score when he hears a commotion in the trees.
You find the book at the bottom of the messenger bag, under some dirty laundry. The first entry is dated a few weeks after the Battle and doesn’t make any sense, talking about prisons and morphine and someone named Jack. You must have still been bleary from the head wound, therapists and doctors suggesting the diary would be good for arranging your thoughts.
There are bright pink post-it notes sticking out from the pages with the words “READ ME” along the edge. The first bookmarks an entry with a single name: Nathaniel Cleer. Below it you’ve written, “Companion Number One”.
Wait. You found one? You actually found a companion? Why didn’t you remember that?
The second note is just a few pages beyond the first. Another name. Another “Companion Number One”. There is no date, but the writing is your own.
The third page is filled with text. Certain passages have been circled in red ink: “The Guide led me to a man in a pub. Just some man. I talked to him first. He said he didn’t know anything about the Doctor but he did ask how Suzie was doing. Who’s Suzie? I don’t understand - the man wasn’t a companion, why would he have mutated blood cells? I don’t want to hurt anyone but I can’t let him get away.”
The diary falls open to the fourth bookmark without you having to stop it, the pages stuck together and brown spots smearing the ink. You can’t actually read any of the words, the scribbles warped and twisted in on themselves.
You almost don’t want to see the last marked entry, but you can’t really help yourself. You flip to the back of the book, hands shaking.
“Jesus!”
There’s a photograph taped to the page; a Polaroid of a dead body, knife sticking grotesquely out of its chest. The words below it are eerily clear compared to the previous entry, like they were drafted with a ruler. “I don’t think the Doctor is coming. I don’t think this world can be saved. I think this is hell.” And scrawled below, in different colored ink, are the words “I’m so sorry.”
There’s another post-it stuck over the corner of the photo, text written in the same ink as the circled passages earlier in the diary: “I’ve labeled a copy of this picture as COMP4 on the desktop of the PDA. If Torchwood is altering the Guide it will not be there when next I read this.”
You grab the Guide from the bed, mashing the keys and waking up the screen. It tells you not to panic, in large friendly letters, but there is no COMP4 on the desktop. No trace of Nathaniel Cleer or any of the other names. No proof that you aren’t a murderer.
You panic. It passes after a moment, leaving you sweating and heaving into the toilet bowl. The porcelain is cool on your cheek so you lay there, staring at the Guide still clutched in your hand. The search program icon is blinking in the corner of the screen, repeating the address of the found companion.
Back in the bedroom you take a fresh piece of paper from the pad, choosing your words carefully: “Things are not what they seem. Do not trust Torchwood. There is no companion.”
You put the note in your right trouser pocket, gather your things into the messenger bag, and call for a taxi. It’s time to get some answers.
Ianto’s just turned left when the Guide vibrates in his pocket, the pleasant ding alerting him to an appointment alarm. Carefully maneuvering the SUV through traffic with one hand and opening the calendar application with the other, he’s pleased to see it’s time for dinner. While he’s not terribly hungry it was always a good idea to get a meal in when possible – he has the unfortunate habit of not eating when stressed.
Coffee is not a food group, he thinks, and parks at the first restaurant he sees – a rundown pub by the quay, a local favorite from the looks of the crowd outside the door. He makes his way to the only open table in the back, far away from the entrance. A waitress comes over, smiling when she sees him.
“Ianto! You haven’t been by in ages. Jack not with you tonight?”
Who’s Jack? Ianto is fairly certain he’s never seen the girl before and the pub is completely unfamiliar. Still, she’s looking at him expectantly, eyes twinkling from the neon sign on the wall behind her. He shakes his head, smiling pleasantly but unable to meet her gaze for very long.
She winks at him. “That’s a shame. You two are always good for business; get’s the singles all a flutter. Shall I bring you your usual, then?”
He nods again and she’s off with a flip of her ponytail, disappearing into the crowd. Ianto pulls the Guide out of his pocket and runs a search. No note of the pub or the waitress, and the only ‘Jack’ is Captain Jack Harkness, leader of Torchwood Cardiff.
“Don’t believe his lies,” he reads aloud. Interesting.
His ‘usual’ turns out to be fish and chips, the staple of every Welshman’s diet and surprisingly delicious for a hole-in-the-wall tavern. The food hits his belly with the warm satisfaction of a job well done and he tucks in greedily, soaking everything in just the right amount of vinegar. Once he’s finished (and has wiped the grease from his fingers) he adds an entry to the Guide recommending the pub for future meals.
He’s halfway through a second pint when a man in period military clothing drops heavily into the seat across from him. There’s a hardness to his face that has Ianto immediately on edge. “Hiya, Yan. Surprised to see me?”
“That’s one way to put it. And don’t call me Yan. My girlfriend called me that.”
“How cute.”
“I hated it. If I wouldn’t let her get away with it then I’m certainly not going to let you.” Whoever you are.
The man grins, wide and gleaming in the dark of the pub. “Sorry. I would have been here sooner but I had to walk back to the Hub for a change of clothes. And the tracker for the SUV, of course. That was a nice touch.”
Ianto has no idea what the man’s talking about but feels distinctly uncomfortable about the way he’s looking at him. It’s an intense stare, scratching away the layers of Ianto’s calm to pick at the frayed nerves just under his skin. It makes Ianto feel like he’s done something wrong.
The waitress slides up to the table, setting a pint of water in front of the stranger. She seems happily surprised to see him. “Heya, Jack! I thought you finally let this one slip your grip.” She bumps his shoulder with her hip, winking at Ianto again. “Was thinking about snatching him up for myself. Can I get you anything? Your usual?”
“Nothing for me tonight, Claire. Thank you.” He doesn’t look up at her flirtation, just continues to stare at Ianto. She shrugs and takes away Ianto’s empty plate.
He knows the man now, thanks to Claire The Waitress and a handy entry in his Guide. But what was he doing meeting with the Captain Jack in a nowhere pub often enough to be recognized by the staff?
Ianto tries to mask the confusion from his face, but either he’s slipping or Jack knows him better than he should. He nods in the direction of the waitress. “You know who she is?”
Ianto shakes his head.
“What about me? Do you remember me?”
He hesitates then shakes his head again. “I’m sorry. I have this condition-“
“I know all about your condition, Ianto! Jesus Christ.” He bends over the table, resting his head in his hands.
Ianto toys with his beer, wiping a finger through the condensation on the glass. He has no point of reference for what’s bothering Jack, and no desire to comfort him. For all he knows this could be an elaborate ruse to gain his trust. After all, the Guide did tell him not to believe his lies.
But, then again, there’s a tattoo on the hand holding the glass telling him to Trust Torchwood. The same Torchwood that nurtured the ghost shifts and allowed the destruction of Canary Wharf. The same Torchwood that caused Lisa to suffer and die. It was all very confusing.
Jack runs his hands through his hair, digging his fingers into his scalp and pulling at the strands until they stick straight up. “I don’t know what to do here, Ianto. You were doing so well that when you stopped coming around I didn’t think anything of it and now… five people are dead.” He snorts, humorlessly. “Well, technically six.”
He certainly has Ianto’s full attention now. “What are you talking about? Who’s dead?”
Jack drops his hands to the table, spilling some of the water from his glass. “This is my fault. When I gave you the assignment to track down the Doctor I never thought it would end like this. You were just supposed to find a pattern, figure out when he’d be likely to show. Find a way I could contact him. Not-”
“A way you could contact him? What the hell are you talking about, Jack? How do you know the Doctor?” There were rumors at London about Captain Jack, mostly of the adult variety. But there were a few researchers that suspected Jack of being older than he looked, maybe even a time-traveler himself. If he knew the Doctor…
“It doesn’t matter now.” Jack looks more tired than when he sat down, the anger draining away to leave his eyes empty. Determined, but empty. “I don’t believe you’re capable of doing something like this, not without someone else pushing you into it. We need to find out how you got to this point and where the hell you got that knife.”
What knife? This discussion is seriously starting to freak Ianto out. He puts on a brave face, hoping to catch the man in a bluff or intimidate him enough so that he’ll leave. “I’m capable of making my own decisions, Jack. And I don’t like what you’re implying here. In fact, I think it’s time you-”
Jack sits up like a dog at point, holding a hand to his ear. There’s a little blue light there Ianto never noticed before, though the device causing it doesn’t look like any Bluetooth he’s familiar with. Jack listens for a moment and then slumps in his seat. “Bad timing, Owen. All right, send the coordinates to the SUV’s sat nav. I’ll take care of it.”
He stands, grabbing Ianto by the shoulder. “Come on. There’s a weevil loose in Bute Park and I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
There’s a woman waiting for you in the empty warehouse. Tall and thin, there’s cunning in her gaze that sets your nerves on edge; like a fox guarding the henhouse. She looks as though she’s good at keeping secrets.
“You’re late. I almost thought you weren’t going to show.” She takes a step toward you, face covered in shadow. “I’ve arranged everything. The companion will be here any minute; I need to leave before he sees me. Here.” She pulls a wicked looking blade out of her bag, offering the handle. “Use this to do it. The metal has temporal properties that will resonate through the Rift. It should help the message get through. Hide it after and send me a message to come get it.”
Her other hand grips yours, tightening around where your fingers hold the knife. She tugs a little, forcing you to look at her. “This is important, Ianto. Do not let this knife fall into the wrong hands. Understand? Here’s a note telling you what to do. Put it in your pocket. Do it now.”
You nod and take the note, glancing at the phone number and instructions. The knife is surprisingly light in your grip, warm where her hands were cold.
She cups your jaw, short nails scratching against the late-day stubble there. “Remember what you’re doing this for, Ianto. Remember Lisa.” She backs away, glancing nervously out the window to the dark car park outside. “Jack should be here any minute. I’ll be watching on the CCTV. Just follow the instructions on the note and don’t forget to-“
You grab her arm, cutting off her exit. She frowns and jerks away.
“I already have a note. Found it in my trouser pocket on the way over. And I’m far more inclined to follow its instructions instead of yours.” You fish the paper out of your pocket - there is no companion – and toss it in her direction.
She catches it out of the air, a smirk curling her lips as she reads. You drop her note on the floor and tighten your grip on the knife. “Who are you really? Why does Torchwood want me to kill someone with this knife?”
“Because we want to help you, Ianto. Don’t you remember?”
You raise your arm, blade hovering a few inches from the soft skin of her neck. The metal almost sings as it moves through the air.
Maybe there is something special about it.
The woman tilts her head, body going soft and slinky against the threat of violence in front of her. “You’re not going to hurt me, Ianto. You’re not a killer.” Her grin is sudden and a little mad. “That’s what makes you so good at it. You’re the perfect scapegoat. So suggestible. Like a doll.”
A chill creeps down your spine. You suddenly want to be very far away from here. “What are you talking about?”
She runs a thin hand down the edge of the blade, slowly, like a lover. “I’m talking about my glove, Ianto. You’ve been so very helpful in providing specimens for me to practice with. I’m so close, just one or two more and I’ll have it.” A bead of blood blossoms on her finger – your hand is shaking – and she raises it to her mouth. Her voice is casual as she sucks on the digit. “Thanks in advance for killing Jack, by the way. He was really getting to be a real pain about things. Asking too many questions.
“You’re right, you know. I made the whole thing up. I took what Jack started and twisted it for myself. It was very selfish of him to keep you for his own pet projects and not share.” She laughs a little, grimly. “The ironic thing is that you already have found a companion. You just don’t know it yet.”
It occurs to you that the woman might be stalling for time, waiting for your memory to lapse. If she’s telling the truth then she’s been manipulating you for weeks. Or is she lying? God, what has she made you do?
Why did you give her your note? You could have held onto it and at least had a reminder. A reminder…
It’s hard to reach the Guide with your left hand, arm folding awkwardly in on itself. You glance from her to the screen, quickly creating a new file on the desktop. She takes a step forward while your eyes are down; you gasp and step back, waving the knife wildly.
She raises her hands and tilts her head, watching you panic. Then she laughs, a grim chuckle, and motions to the Guide with her chin. “I know what you’re trying to do, Ianto. Pathetic. Go ahead, make yourself a little note. I’ll just delete it when I get back to the Hub. It’s not like Jack will be there to stop me.
“Do you remember Jack, Ianto? You should - you’ve only been fucking each other blind the past month and a half.”
“Shut up.” What meant to be a shout is a whisper instead, scraping between your teeth. “I would never-“
“But you don’t know, do you? You could do anything and not remember it, even fuck a man instead of your precious Lisa. Tell me, do you ever feel guilty for no reason? Ever feel sad? Ever wonder what really happened that night in London? This wouldn’t be the first time you’ve done something and not remembered it. Like Lisa, and the morphine, and that long drive to Cardiff.”
You type blindly with your left hand, hoping like hell it makes some sort of sense. “Shut up. Shut up.”
“I’m impressed you made it, to be honest. Especially in the state you were in. Remember the explosion? The screaming?”
Oh god. Oh god.
Somewhere outside a car door slams, echoing like a gunshot through the empty warehouse. You both jerk at the sound, turning to look out the window. There’s a man in a greatcoat standing next to a large SUV. He looks around once and makes his way to the front of the warehouse.
The woman is suddenly far too close, brushing her lips against your cheek and tightening your hand around something warm and metallic.
The woman is suddenly far too close, brushing her lips against his cheek and tightening his hand around something warm and metallic.
“This is it, Ianto. He’s the one,” she whispers in his ear. “Kill him to bring her back. Use the knife.” And she vanishes into the dark of the warehouse before Ianto can ask her name or what she means. Though there’s really only one thing she could mean…
There’s a man coming through the door, keeping to the shadows along the wall. Ianto tucks the knife carefully into his messenger bag, angling his body so his movements aren’t immediately visible. His whole body is shaking and there’s the sour taste of fear in the back of his throat.
The Guide is in his other hand, curser blinking in an open file. The text is garbled but certain words are clear: shecrsaazy jack nocompanion not fon’ttrusttorchwooos helpgtgelp
Companion. Oh god, this was it. Was he really going through with this?
“Ianto? What are you doing here?”
The stranger’s in period military clothing, gorgeous great-coat fanning behind him like wings. His accent sounds American, though it’s a little hard to tell exactly where he’s from. Ianto tucks the Guide back into his pocket and steps closer.
“What’s your name?”
The man blinks, broad shoulders slumping ever so slightly. “Jack. I’m Jack, Ianto.” He takes a deep breath, looking around the room. “Funny seeing you here. We got an anonymous tip from this location not twenty minutes after I talked to you. You hung up so quickly I never got the chance to ask what was bothering you.”
Ianto tightens his grip on the knife, the metal warm against his palm. “I’m sorry, Jack.”
He nods. “I was worried, Ianto. And now I find you where a killer’s meant to be. You’re not—“
“No, I’m sorry about this.”
The knife sings through the air, the arc of his arm pushing it straight into Jack’s side. White noise fills his ears for a moment - a burst of heat behind his eyes, palm tingling – and then Jack’s falling off the blade, blood pouring out of the hole in his coat.
Ianto stands there, staring, trying to comprehend what he’s just done. The blood is really coming out now, staining the concrete around the body. (The body, oh god.) Oddly enough, the knife is clean in his hand, as if it consumed the drops clinging to the blade. But that would be ridiculous, wouldn’t it?
He sets the knife next to his messenger bag on a clean bit of floor and calls up the camera application on the Guide. A simple click and it’s there forever, pixelated evidence that he’s a murderer. He hopes the Doctor comes soon; he’s not sure how much longer he can stand the roiling in his guts.
He saves the image to the desktop under “Jack, Companion #1” and tucks the Guide back into his jacket pocket. The warehouse is fairly off the beaten path so the body might not be discovered for some time. He feels terrible leaving it lay there exposed to the elements, though he supposes any respect he gives the corpse is moot considering he was responsible for its death in the first place. Still, best to hide it away in a corner just in case.
He’s steeled himself to grab hold of the corpse’s ankles when it jerks back to life, sitting up and gasping out a scream.
Ianto falls backward, screaming himself. Fucking hell! He flails around quickly for something to protect himself. The knife is too far away for any help, but there’s something dully gleaming at the – what, zombie? Jesus – the body’s belt. It’s a holster.
Jack is bent over his side, coughing up blood and clutching at the wound through the thick fabric of his coat. Ianto darts in, lightning quick, and grabs the gun from him before he can react. He stands shakily, holding the gun with both hands.
Jack coughs one more time, wiping his mouth with a sleeve. “The fuck? Ianto, did you just stab me?” He pulls the coat away from his side, running a hand along the tear in his shirt. The skin underneath is red and wet, but sealed shut.
“What are you? You were dead! I watched you die!” His vision wavers at the edges and Ianto feels very close to a nervous breakdown. Maybe this is all a hallucination. Maybe his condition has finally driven him insane. Maybe he’s still in the Tower, trapped under a conversion unit and bleeding out from a head wound.
But no, the sweat dripping into his eyes and the heavy smell of blood in the air suggest a reality he doesn’t want to contemplate, one where corpses rise and Ianto is their murderer. The Doctor never came. This is a different kind of madness.
Jack rises slowly, stretching the muscles in his back. “I can’t die, at least not for long; I really don’t want to have that conversation with you again. Wait-” He straightens, eyes wide and staring accusingly at Ianto. “You’re the killer? Five bodies stabbed to death with a blade of extraterrestrial origin –that was you? I don’t believe it. Ianto, what were you thinking?”
Five… What was he talking about? Jack is the first companion Ianto’s found; he would have made a note, a tattoo, if there had been others. “I…” He shifts his stance, backing away from the other man until he stumbles over his bag. His voice is small, a whisper echoing through the darkness. “If I alter the timeline enough then the Doctor will come to fix it. It’ll be like it never happened.”
Jack’s presence is huge in the room, taking up the space Ianto would gladly give away. “And so five people had to die? What was their connection, Ianto? Why were they so important to the universe that you wouldn’t let them live?”
“I - I don’t… The Guide…”
“Jesus. You have no idea what you’ve done, do you? No idea of the lives you ruined.” He steps closer, boots sticking to the gummy floor. Ianto flinches, gripping the gun between them. Jack doesn’t seem aware that Ianto took it from him; he’s shocked – and very angry.
“This was supposed to be simple. This was supposed to be something to keep your mind occupied, to give you something to work on. If it followed my own ends, then so what?” He shakes his head, snarling. “I should have kept you locked up when I had the chance. You’re too dangerous to be kept among normal people.”
Ianto shakes his own head, heartbeat pounding in his ears. Jack advances further still, voice a low growl. “I never should have trusted you. Not after you brought that Cyberwoman to the Hub.”
Ianto’s blood runs cold. “Excuse me?”
“We found you after the Battle in a stolen truck on the Plass, covered in retcon dust and damn-near comatose next to a conversion unit and your dead girlfriend. You led her right to us, Ianto.”
He shakes his head again, Jack’s words not making any sense. “No.”
“She was only half-converted. There were empty morphine bottles all over the truck. You must have dosed her over and over again, trying to stop the pain.” Jack paces forward, leaning into Ianto’s space. “You could have killed everyone. But instead, you just killed her. You were too fucked up to even get that right.”
Fire reflecting in the metallic wetness of her cheek, powdery grit falling from his hair onto her face. Ash and retcon in his mouth.
“No. No, you’re wrong. Lisa died in the conversion machine. The Cybermen killed her. Not me.”
Jack snorts. “You’ve been lying to yourself all along, Ianto. Why should now be any different?” He leans back, rubbing his neck and laughing. There’s no humor in the sound. “You were so sincere, so... I thought you should have a chance to be something other than a victim. And here you were never a victim at all.”
His voice turns mocking, imitating Ianto’s accent poorly. “I just need a purpose, Jack. Give me something to hold on to. Well, fuck you, Ianto Jones. There’s no going back from this. This is too much, even for me to—“
“Can you really not die?”
“What?” Jack blinks, caught off guard.
Ianto’s voice is quiet after Jack’s yelling, but steady, his decision made. “Can you really not stay dead? Was that the truth?”
“What does that have to do with—“
The gunshot recoils up Ianto’s arm, a perfect dark circle disturbing the shock on Jack’s face. Ianto watches him crumble, body hitting the concrete with a dull thud. He shoots him twice more, in the chest and the knee, assuming it will take him longer to recover if there’s more damage to heal. It won’t hold him for long…unless he has to walk out of here covered in blood and exit wounds. Ianto’s hand doesn’t shake when he fishes the car keys out of Jack’s pocket. Hopefully taking Jack’s transportation will buy enough time for Ianto to get a head start.
He pauses on the way out the door, inhaling great lungfuls of clean night air. The keys in his hand match the SUV in the car park and Ianto turns over the motor, letting the engine heat up. He hides the knife between boxes of alien technology in the back of the SUV, hesitating to throw it away.
He shows no compunction with the rest of his belongings, spilling the messenger bag onto the passenger seat. Most of it is harmless everyday items – those he returns to their rightful place. There’s a diary he’s never seen before with READ ME on little post-it notes scattered through the pages. He flips through the book, shudders, and tosses the whole thing out the window into a puddle. The gun he stuffs into an empty pocket on the side of the bag, just in case.
The Guide is more delicate and needs a little more attention. He erases the unnamed file saved on the desktop and every mention of the man in the warehouse, even from the copied Archive files. He keeps only one; a candid photo of Jack smiling at the camera saved in his private image gallery. He changes the caption to read: CPT Jack Harkness, leader T3 Cardiff - Don’t believe his lies.
There. Now he’ll be ready when he and Jack find one another again. And he has no doubt that they will; Ianto’s search program will detect the altered blood cells in Jack’s body and Jack will use CCTV and the on-board sat nav to locate his stolen car. It was as good as destiny.
He returns the PDA to its pocket and shakes out his hands, fixing his hair in the rear view mirror. If Ianto’s life is a lie, he should make it a good one. Jack was right – everyone needed a purpose. Why couldn’t this be his? It wasn’t like he was hurting anyone by it, not really. Jack reset after every death, back to the beginning in the blink of an eye.
Just like Ianto.
He releases the parking brake and pulls out of the lot, carefully driving over the diary where it lies in the dirt. Behind him he imagines Jack waking with a gasp, the sound echoing through the lonely dark.
Time to get back to business, Ianto thinks, and turns left.
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Date: 2011-02-06 09:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-07 12:12 am (UTC)Thank you for reading and I'm glad you liked it!
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Date: 2011-02-07 08:28 am (UTC)Not that the format lends itself to a sequel, but it would be great if you could do it, even in a more traditional narrative.
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Date: 2011-02-07 08:41 am (UTC)I've actually been mulling over writing a little prequel about what happened to Ianto just after Canary Wharf. I have this image in my head of him captured by UNIT and languishing in prison for awhile. Not a fun story, but maybe an interesting one.
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Date: 2011-02-11 04:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-11 07:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-13 01:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-21 02:33 pm (UTC)