Title: Delusion in blue
Fandom: Torchwood
Characters, Pairing: Ianto, Owen, Ianto/Jack(coat)
Rating: Mature (sexual content, language)
Spoiler: Set right before Kiss Kiss Bang Bang, so minor spoilers for what happens before that.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Beta-work: Brilliant, awesome Blue Fjords
--
By then, the movement had become automatic. Involuntary contraction of muscles, a command that was born out of some incomprehensible and essential need in some far corner of his mind, radiating through his body in waves. Lift the glass, turn it against his lips, open the mouth to welcome relief in liquid form, let it go down burning, searing away the resentment coagulating behind his throat.
The slow and rhythmic pace of the stopwatch, carefully placed in front of him on the desk, marked the beat of hours running past him, minute after minute after minute after minute. Counting wasn't the point; he just liked the feeling of time ebbing away keeping him attached to reality. The nonstop ticking prevented him from getting too far lost in his current very hazy state of mind and nebulous thoughts.
The Hub was dark and quiet, everyone else gone to find their own comfort after another nearly-deadly mission. One more assignment they took almost completely blindfolded and had to find the way out as they moved along. Although they were doing better than he'd expected, Ianto wondered how long this improvised tactic would work.
Another day came to its close and the next was on the verge of rising without them hearing a word from or about the man who'd brought them all into it, and was supposed to be there, boosting their confidence through adversity.
Ianto wasn't sure whether he was mostly worried or mostly angry. During the most significant part of the time, he was just frustrated. Not knowing made him helpless, and helplessness didn't do much for hope. He was, he feared, starting to side with Owen rather than Gwen on the matter; Jack wasn't coming back. Nothing indicated he would. Nothing ever had. And siding with Owen was pretty much the end of all hope. As a minimal possibility, it was also the end of the world.
He knew something the others didn't, and so far he hadn't had the courage to share. Ianto was always reticent about providing Owen with any sort of argument that could serve as accurate proof to his opinions, which in that case would be the same as shoving a bucket of icy water over Gwen's head – hard to tell which was worse. They were the two extremes, Gwen and Owen; one was the personification of optimism while the other was ruthlessly cynical. Him and Tosh… They wavered between what they wanted to believe and listening to the voice of reason – sounding insufferably too much like Owen to be taken completely seriously.
Ianto knew where Jack went. At least he knew who Jack went with, and that said enough.
The silence in the office was almost absolute in its thickness. The barely-there ticks from the stopwatch the only thing disturbing the stillness. He'd decided, for the sake of his dignity, to bypass that room as often as possible, not thoroughly convinced he wouldn't end up embarrassing himself, either by indulging in various kinds of inappropriate behaviors or by feeling pathetic on unearthly new levels he didn't even know were possible. It felt too much like Jack in there. It smelled like him. And Ianto needed the tangible sensation of presence, fake as it was, projected by that room more than he was willing to accept - more than he could secure his composure around.
The notes, reports and documents piling up on the desk as though actually waiting for someone to get to them were there out of sheer force of habit. The post-it messages had been emphatically abolished, as they seemed an exaggerated sign of despair. But in spite of his efforts to stay out, every day, when the others weren't there, Ianto'd go inside for only five seconds, just enough to breathe that air, squint closely at the coat hanging on the corner, looking neater than it had in years perhaps. It settled down the constant rattle inside of him, made him less uncomfortable and more willing. Jack had defined new patterns in him, as well as put him in touch with older ones he thought had been forever lost; maybe it was an addiction, or maybe he just wasn't ready to let go. Either way, Ianto was frankly uncertain of what would become of him the day he didn't need any of that anymore.
His fierce resolution had been defeated by his dependence hours earlier – long, long hours earlier. Ianto eased himself down on Jack's chair, opened one of Jack's scotches, poured himself some in one of Jack's crystal glasses. It was scary, as well as sad, how ridiculously satisfying it all felt for about ten seconds, before he was invaded by an overwhelming deep-seated loneliness. It was about that point, he guessed, that he'd given himself in to grief, when his resigned and cool façade wore off and then he lost count of time and glasses; right about the moment when his eyes fixed on the blue greatcoat and refused to leave.
They were identical, the two coats. The one Jack'd taken with him, and the one he had been wearing the day he had his epic battle with Abbadon; the one Ianto'd carried home with him, originally with the innocent purpose of getting it clean, but ended up clinging desperately to and crying on when he thought Jack was gone for good. The greatcoats weren't just pieces of clothing; they were part of Jack, represented something he couldn't quite name about who Jack was. Well, at least to Ianto they did. It could be that he just liked the coats on a slightly unhealthy level, but Ianto was sure that after so many years together, there was something of his boss deeply ingrained into those woolen lines. He couldn't unsee it. And right now, he stared at it intently, as though he was trying to extract something out of it.
Maybe he was.
He looked down and sighed; there were three glasses in front of him now. Four, if he looked closer. It was getting harder to hit the drink in the right place, what with the devilish thing reproducing itself. When he gazed back at the coat, he could swear the sneaky thing had moved.
"I can see you, you know. You don't fool me," chanted Ianto, unblinking eyes on the coat that apparently thought it was smarter than him. "All judgmental and… blue, there. I know what you're thinking." A gulp and he licked his lips, savoring the taste of Jack's really good booze. "You think I'm sulking because of you." He snorted a laugh. "You are a very presumptuous piece of old garment."
When the coat began to reply, Ianto was only mildly impressed. It looked like it had wanted to say something for a long time now.
Aren't you? it said, smug tone and pompous American accent. There was a smirk there too, somewhere. He could tell.
"What, sulking?" he asked, perplexed at the insolence of the coat. "I'm not sulking, I'm just – relaxing after a long day of work." And before the coat could say anything, he pointed an accusatory finger at it and added, "And don't you start, because it's your fault we've been getting so bloody exhausted."
I wasn't going to start.
"Right." He drank again. "Then don't."
Ianto stared sternly at the greatcoat for long ticks of the stopwatch.
He was drunk, but wasn't gonna get into an argument with the coat. With a coat. Instead, he inhaled deeply, and let the scotch wash the bitterness rising back to where it came from. "You could've said something, before you left."
There was no time.
"Made a phone a call," Ianto shrugged.
Couldn't do it.
"Left a note."
No time.
"A bloody post-it! Three miserable words would've done it! Leaving, sorry, bye!" Ianto ranted.
I couldn't even stop to breathe, Ianto. It was either taking or leaving.
"I'm thrilled to know how easy it was for you to decide."
The coat sighed, or it might have been a sigh – a very guilty one. "You don't even care that we nearly died, do you?" he asked then. "In the bloody Himalayas. Do you even know we'd been sent there?"
As a matter of fact, I do.
"And that it was a trap?" he stressed the last word.
I know.
"So you really don't care," said Ianto, distressed but honestly unsurprised.
I didn't say that.
"It's the same."
What kind of leader would I be if I picked a team that I can't trust?
"What kind of leader are you if you're not even leading your team to begin with?" he snapped back, not containing the acridness of his tone. The following quietness of the coat made Ianto feel slightly victorious. "Maybe we're just not ready to be on our own."
You're underestimating yourselves.
"Or you're overestimating us." He paused, shook his head and immediately regretted the move. It took a couple of ticks for his eyes to be able to focus back on the coat.
"I think…" Ianto started again. "I think you'd be proud of Gwen. She is really –" he paused, thoughtfully, pressing his narrowed eyes. "She is keeping us together. She's a good leader, I think. Will be."
I told you, I pick my team wisely.
Ianto paused, vision blurring as his thoughts drifted away. "I -" he said, eyes fixing again as he swallowed; preoccupations he didn't even know he had surfacing. "I don't know what happens to us once we convince ourselves that you're not coming back. Gwen's doing great so far, but - I'm afraid of what will happen… then."
And why is that?
"It's been keeping us together to believe you'll return," he explained. "Everything feels… temporary. Like we're… just warming up the place while we wait. But once we realize we're on our own definitively – then I don't know what happens. This… thing…" Ianto motioned his hand vaguely in circles, chasing the word that was escaping him. "This…" he tried again, biting his tongue. It was right there. "Unreasonable!" Ianto proudly exclaimed. "Right, unreasonable -" He stopped. "Wait, what was I saying?"
But the coat didn't reply. He puffed in annoyance, blew the air out all at once. "Sod it. You're not here anyway, it doesn't matter."
Talk to me, Ianto.
"What am I doing right now, exactly?" Ianto cocked an eyebrow. "I'm drunk, and I'm talking to you. And you're a coat. How fucked up does that make me?"
That soulful, unmistakable laughter filled the air, stretching in waves of loud and clear sound until it was reverberating all around him. His heart might have skipped a beat right there, his lungs might have failed him. The familiar sound he missed so much joined the lonely ticking of his stopwatch, propelling from fantasy right into substantiality, making him feel happy and silly and pathetic, in turns.
"Shut it," he mumbled under his breath, lowering his head down to lean his forehead against the by-now wet tabletop. Ianto was only vaguely processing the alcoholic mess he'd made on Jack's desk – deliberately ignoring the allegedly important documents he'd put there.
He turned his head, eyeing the innocent-looking but mischievous World War II greatcoat. "Fuck," cursed Ianto. "I miss you."
I miss you, too.
Ianto exhaled ruefully, closed his eyes and concentrated on the stopwatch, ticking away incessantly. Something kept kicking in the back of his mind, reminding him that he wasn't supposed to be talking to a coat – or, more aggravatingly, that a coat was definitely not supposed to be replying. The world went just a bit out of axis, and he could no longer tell what was real from what was mental exhaustion from what was alcohol. Face taut, he hissed, "God…"
Ianto.
"Stop."
Ianto.
"Stop talking to me!"
Come here.
"Stop being such a sentient coat! Get out of my head!" He possibly aimed to hit the coat when he threw the glass in the air, but the sound of crystal crashing on the floor told him he hit something else entirely. "Just - shut up."
Come here.
Ianto raised his head again and looked reprovingly at the coat. "Why is it that you have to sound so much like him?"
Because you want me to.
Shooting an indecipherable look at the coat, he leaned against the desk and levered himself up, his limbs feeling significantly heavier than they should. His legs threatened to give way, but he managed to sustain himself standing, barely firm but able to walk. Or stumble, as he zig-zagged his way to the coat.
Then it was just the two of them, staring evenly into each other. Or he did the staring, and the coat leveled his eyes by adopting a clearly defiant posture and remaining impassive.
"You're just a coat."
I miss you.
"Just. A. Coat," Ianto barked between gritted teeth.
Touch me.
And he did. Stretched out a hesitating hand to feel the fine, heavy wool brushing against his fingers, strangely tempting - strangely erotic. For a moment he felt incredibly dirty, but the over-alertness was gone in a blink, and then he was sliding his hand down, undoing the buttons – large golden rings losing their sparkle after long years of many battles, but not their beauty, the tip of his fingers skimming delicately over the patterns of it. When the coat was hanging unbuttoned and welcoming, Ianto couldn't resist spreading his palms against the inner linning, stepping closer to inhale the musky scent of its inside, an almost imperceptible touch of lavender from the last time it was cleaned, not used ever since.
It was like… Jack, after a long shower, fresh and warm but still smelling of sex. Jack always smelled like sex. And God, he missed Jack…
Ianto grabbed the coat, wrapped it around his shoulders, tumbling and nearly falling down with the reckless and faintly hurried movement. He slowly slid his arms inside the sleeves – right first, then left, careful not to collapse now. He was embraced by the warmth of it, that same inexplicable sense of protection and certainty he felt when he was near Jack, even though Jack was everything but certain.
Ianto felt the coat gain consistency, become solid and real. Wool and chest and beating heart pressed against his back; strong and possessive arms crossing over his chest, pulling him into an embrace that was keeping him steady although he was really one step away from cracking up – if it was either out of balance or out of sanity he didn't know. Didn't care.
The fabric brushed his neck softly – featherlike kisses caressing his skin, hot mouth breathing against his flesh and making every hair on his body bristle. He was writhing and moaning and the coat, damned coat, was – God – whispering his name.
"You're warm," said Ianto.
You're warm, replied the coat.
He wanted to cry.
Then he was sliding down, leaning against the wall to sit on the floor. He could see the little pieces of shattered glass glittering in a million colors, scattered about, as his vision blurred and his head went spiraling. The coat hugged him again, said everything was gonna be alright in a strange ticking rhythm, and then touched his thigh. Ianto bit his lip and scrunched his eyes shut, lost somewhere between perfect bliss and nausea.
There was a large, demanding hand pressing against his crotch, and deft fingers undoing his belt and opening his trousers. "Fuck," he hissed, and the coat giggled. He was hard – a fucking coat was making him hard. But it felt so much like Jack, it sounded so much like Jack, and he was so drunk and so miserable – and that was Jack's hand sliding inside his pants – he suddenly couldn't care less (or recognize) how ridiculous the whole thing was.
It was stroking him, clever fingers skimming over the length of his cock, knowing just where to touch and what to do to make him see sparkling crystal stars and chant that fucking name incessantly like a mantra. Ianto tried to bite it back, but it kept getting out. "Jack... Jack…"
The coat just giggled, that smug tone of one who knows it's desired – needed. One who knows how fucking good it is and how wildly irrational or just plain insane it can drive someone.
Come for me.
"Fuck," he said again. The orgasm built up in him fast; Ianto pushed his hips forwards, thrusting his cock in the coat's firm hand. "Fuck, Jack…" He was begging it to stop, and asking it to never leave him.
Come for me, Ianto.
He acquiesced, because he always acquiesced to Jack, and came with a loud groan and his head swirling around as though he was in a fucking rollercoaster. A huge hole opened underneath him, dragging him inside, everything around him spinning too fast until it came to an abrupt halt, and it all felt too raw, too real. There was no torpor, no satisfaction; he tasted bile in his mouth, felt sick and disgusted. His eyes flew open, and he was alone in an office that smelled like dust and alcohol, wearing an abandoned old coat, with his hand smeared with his own come.
His stomach liquefied itself and came out along with the food of the past three days - thankfully, he'd settled not so far from the trash bin. Vomiting on himself or the floor was too much even in his state. He wiped his mouth with the back of one hand and the other one on his trousers.
"The fuck you've done to me…" he muttered – to Jack, or to the coat.
A disgraceful laughter grew in his throat and threatened to come out with a cry; for a moment he felt like throwing up again. It was a sharp and husky growl that sounded far more like a saddening sob. Maybe it was, too.
The stopwatch continued its ticking march, sobering him up enough to acknowledge the deplorable irony of his life. He hadn't felt this awful and thoroughly destroyed since… Lisa. Except with Lisa there was a measure of relief in his wretchedness, even if he refused to admit it.
The consolation offered by oblivion was suddenly too alluring to be denied as his lashes began to feel heavy, eyelids forcing themselves closed.
Any attempt to resist turned into strangled, meaningless syllables and wasted effort. Ianto was drawn into nothingness again as he lost himself to sleep or some other less dignifying sort of unconsciousness. Right before it all became black, he heard the coat blowing into his ear, in between the ticks of his watch.
I'm coming back.
--
Sounds consolidated before he became aware of something really not gentle shaking him.
"Ianto," he heard his name. "Ianto, wake up, you drunk."
He pressed his eyes closed and felt an admonishing pang of pain, starting in his head and going all the way down his legs. His neck was torturing him, his back ached, his legs were apparently waking up with him. And fuck, his arse; it was probably square shaped forever.
"Ianto," he heard again, and then a pained moan escaped his lips as he lifted his head and tried to open his eyes.
Spots of color danced in front of him, and he had to blink several times before he could distinguish the clearly unhappy face of Owen amongst them. "What –" he tried to speak, but was stopped by the acid taste of vomit in his mouth, had to snap it back shut to keep from retching.
"Here," Owen said, passing him a glass of water. "You look like shit."
Ianto drank it all at once, could almost hear it hitting the bottom of his empty stomach. "Thanks."
"And here I was thinking you were the responsible one." Owen collected a dried out bottle of scotch from the desk and waved it in the air. "You bloody fucker, drank all of Jack's good stuff. I left it untouched 'cause I thought you'd eat my liver if I had it."
Ianto leaned his head back against the wall. It had been a long time since he'd felt his body so uncomfortably sore and his head so unbearably heavy. It wasn't so unfamiliar though; he'd spent half of his adolescence like that.
"How do you feel?"
"Dead."
"Thought so. I have some of my magic anti-hangover potion down at the bay, will fetch it for you."
"That's very kind of you," Ianto replied, voice dragged and raspy.
Owen was quiet for a moment, and Ianto was almost thankful for his discretion. But it obviously didn't last long; Owen was too soon speaking again, louder then Ianto's brain was willing to process without marked twinges of painful complaints.
"You have to snap out of it, mate," he started. "Jack returned to the worm hole he was spat out from and he is not coming back. He's not worthy of your shitty hangover." Ianto was taken aback by how compassionate Owen sounded, but it lasted for no more than a split-second; he blinked and the empathy was gone, and Owen was back to being his regular unpleasant self. "Besides, next time you want to have a misery wank, would you care to do it in your flat? This place is smelling like someone's killed a drunken skunk in here."
Ianto sighed slowly. "Will remember that next time."
"Just pull yourself together, alright?" Owen continued. "Tosh caught strange spikes from the Rift, it's really tiny stuff but apparently something came through. We've received reports of a flashy blowfish scaring children across the city. We might have to go hunt the bastard, so you better get your arse out there as soon as you're feeling like a person again." He paused. "I'll keep the girls out. But don't take too long, Gwen can sense emotional mess miles away. She'll become all touchy and won't leave you alone until you open up your drunken heart. It won't be pretty, trust me."
He would've laughed if he wasn't so sure he'd pass out from it. Rather, he offered a small smile, the best he could manage without irritating his stomach. Owen just shook his head, turning his face away to hide his own grin as he closed the door behind him. Somewhere amidst the pile of shit Ianto had the impression of being under, he found an ease to his distress, and a comfort to his shameful desolation. He'd probably regret that in a couple of hours, when Owen felt it was no longer unfair to torture him, but right then he was frankly thankful. And not keen on the idea of having to open up to anyone.
The words 'coming back' were distinguishable being hummed by some distant little voice in the back of his mind, but he reckoned it was his own disrespectful self trying to cling to some thin thread of hope that was more than crushed at that point. He pulled himself up and shrugged out the coat, sparing only a short glance at it, a second in which he realized he could remember all too well the appalling night before.
"Right," he said, hanging the coat and turning around to regard the office. "Shower, coffee, Owen's potion, mess, blowfish. Done," and he was out to save the world again.
End.