Title: So Very, Very Dead
Rating: R
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Ianto Jones; Jack/Ianto, Ianto/Lisa
Summary: When Ianto breaks, he will kill Jack. Slowly and painfully.
Warnings: Graphic descriptions of violence, dark themes.
Note: This is a rather twisted POV of Ianto's relationship with Jack, pre-Cyberwoman. I am aware that aspects of his character in this fic may be OOC. Written for the redisourcolor Challenge #9: Senses, with prompts: water, radio, and stars.
Disclaimer: Torchwood and associated characters belong to BBC and RTD.
After Canary Wharf, he should be used to the smell of blood. He's had it on his face, on his hands, had tasted its sharp coppery tang on his tongue. But he finds that it still bothers him, that splash of red on the wall, the dried trickle surrounding a wound, dark brown stains in cloth. Old or fresh, he can still smell it and oh god it hurts to fight down the thoughts of that bloody day, or of his Lisa in the basement.
Jack is a complete arsehole. If he could get away with it Ianto would dearly love to march up to his office and grab that beloved Webley of his and shoot that goddamn wanker in the head, several times. And laugh.
He laughs now, a hysterical giggle that burbles up from his throat and he viciously bites down on the inside of his cheek to suppress it. Blood fills his mouth, blood, blood, blood, oh goddammit.
He gives the body a kick and it rolls down over the rocks, down the embankment and slides into the water with a splash. The police will find a John Doe in the river two days later, the face bloated and nibbled at by fish. Another perfect cleanup, Torchwood style, because Ianto never does anything by halves.
After he kills Jack, he will dance. A jig maybe, on the desk he's been bent over and fucked so many times.
His gloves are tacky with drying blood and really, he should know better by now than to wear his nice gloves for work like this, what was he thinking?
About how he'll chop Jack's body up into little pieces. He knows there's an axe in the basement somewhere. And then he'll feed them to Janet. And Myfanwy.
The stench of blood crawls up his nostrils and sinks its gleaming hooks into his brain. Almost frantic, he rips of his gloves and throws them into the river too. So what if the police find them and trace them to him He doesn't care any more, cannot care, shitshitshit the smell of blood makes his head hurt.
Maybe he could poison Jack. It would be fun to watch him writhe, a look of complete agony on his face, at both the pain and Ianto's betrayal.
Yes, poison would be good, one that hurts like the fire that burns through Ianto's own veins right now and licks at his brain.
He looks up and inhales the air laced with blood and sweat and the midnight smells of grass and smoke and tarmac. The stars spin above him, those bastards laughing, laughing at him, those bastards so high up, untouchable…
He'd once promised Lisa he'd give her anything, even the stars if she were to ask nicely, and now they mock him because he can't even give her hope.
After he poisons Jack, he will drown him in the river, and drown all those feelings too.
Ianto fumbles the keys twice and once the engine roars to life, he turns on the radio. Some crap by James Blunt comes on but he doesn't hear it, lets the tune and the words rush meaninglessly through his head as he drives back, the streetlights streaking past the window, the stars flying past above him.
And they're all laughing, laughing at him, the stars and the moon and the whole goddamn world because he's driving back to Jack and his cock and tongue and hands while Lisa cries in the basement, because he can't even make a simple promise.
They laugh at him through the black of night.
He feels so very, very dead.
Fin
A/N: Some of you may think the body Ianto's disposing of is Jack's. It's not. ;P Sorry for any confusion caused!