Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own Torchwood, Doctor Who, or any of the associated characters. They belong to the very nice folks at BBC.
Author's note: I know there are a lot of fluff pieces like this floating around after the events of CoE, but I couldn't resist. XD This is my first Torchwood fic, and my first attempt at fanfiction in many years. Since it's never made clear where exactly Ianto lived pre-CoE, I took some liberties with that. And yes, even though the Doctor did make an appearance, I'm putting this under Torchwood, since it's not really a crossover.
For a man who had lived as long as Jack Harkness had, death was inescapable. Not his, never his, of course; he was the man who couldn't die, after all. An anomaly. A fixed point in time and space. He was, as the Doctor so delicately put it, wrong. He felt wrong, now, so very wrong, so very empty. No, he couldn't die, but everybody else could. And, eventually, did. Leaving him alone, always alone…
He woke up. His head hurt. His mouth was dry. His body ached. His heart...oh God, his heart. The pain was physical, an awful, stabbing pain. He cried out.
"Shhh…it's alright." The heavy Welsh accent registered slowly in his mind. Gwen. He opened his eyes. He was in a room he'd seen only a few times, usually in quite a hurry, usually when he was being yelled at. Gwen's living room. Why was he in Gwen's living room? The ex-cop was gently shushing him, her hand smoothing the hair back from his face. He was lying down. He sat up. It hurt. He lay down again. Rhys was hovering protectively over Gwen, studying him not with hostility, but with unconcealed pity.
"W---" he started forming the question but the words stuck in his throat, which burned at the effort of attempting to speak. Gwen looked over her shoulder at Rhys, who disappeared for a moment, and came back with a perspiring glass of water. Gwen took it and gently held it up to Jack's mouth, and he drank, savoring the feel of the water washing down his throat in a way he never had before.
Suddenly he became aware of another presence in the room. Standing in the corner, hands in his pockets. Looking somber. Hair perfectly disheveled, in a way only he could accomplish, avoiding Jack's gaze. The Doctor.
"He found you, Jack," Gwen explained quietly. "He heard what happened, he heard…" Gwen's voice wavered. "He heard about Ianto." The name sent a rush of emotion through Jack and he whimpered softly, all composure completely lost, vulnerable and pathetic. "You were in Ianto's flat when he found you…do you remember?"
Ianto's flat. The one he lived in before the attack, before Jack became a wanted man, before the 456, before…before he died. Jack remembered the flat. He didn't remember going there, though. He just remembered holding Ianto, losing Ianto, sacrificing Steven , the look on his Alice's face. Aware that Gwen was waiting for an answer, he shook his head, almost imperceptibly.
Weary eyes met his. "You were on the floor when he found you. Unconscious. This was yesterday. A full week after…after everything. He said it looked like you hadn't slept, hadn't eaten… like you were punishing yourself." Her voice was soft, filled with pain, pain she could only try to share with him. Pain that was only a fraction of his own.
Jack remembered now. He remembered going to the apartment, remembered thinking it wouldn't matter now, nobody would care where he went, remembered lying down on Ianto's bed and breathing in his scent, coffee and aftershave, falling asleep sobbing into his pillow. Remembered fussing over it when he woke up, not wanting Ianto to be mad at him for making a mess. Remembered remembering that Ianto wouldn't be there to be mad at him, not ever. Remembered walking around the house like a ghost. Remembered staring at the ceiling, not allowing his eyes to close, staring at the dripping faucet, the irregular drops echoing in his skull like so many drums, not allowing himself to quench his growing thirst. He remembered the darkness, creeping up on him, the oblivion threatening to overtake him. Remembered fighting it, not allowing the blissful unconsciousness to take him, remembered giving in when he could fight it no longer.
He looked up at the Doctor, who still wouldn't meet his eyes. Gwen followed his gaze, and took hold of Rhys, steering him out of the room gently, leaving them alone. The silence that filled the void between them made Jack want to scream.
"I'm sorry." It took a second for the immortal to realize that the Doctor had spoken, and at first thought he had imagined it. The man hadn't moved, just whispered those two words. And again. "I'm sorry." His voice broke just slightly that time. Coming to life suddenly, the older man crossed the room in three easy strides and knelt down beside the couch Jack was lying on. "I was too late…" A definite falter in his voice that time. His brown eyes searched Jack's own desperately, aching for forgiveness. "I should have been there."
Jack found his voice. "Yes, you should have." The words hurt his throat as they forced their way out, and the Doctor flinched visibly. The grief, the emptiness, all of it was gone suddenly, replaced with raw anger. He struggled upright.
"You're always there, Doctor. Always. But never when it matters. Never…you weren't there when I needed you," he admitted. The Doctor's slender arms wrapped around Jack's broad shoulders, and he made room for himself on the couch, hugging Jack to him, letting him bury his face in the faithful pinstriped suit.
"I'm here now," the Doctor whispered. Jack began to weep, clinging to the Time Lord. "It's alright. Sh." Neither of them paid any attention to the words of empty comfort the Doctor was muttering. "I'm here now…" He rocked back and forth, soothing Jack, cooing nonsense like a parent to a child. His suit was stained with blotches of salty tears and he rested his chin on Jack's head, murmuring hollow clichés.
Jack fell asleep in the Doctor's arms, and when Gwen came back some time later, the Doctor was still holding the slumbering captain, staring blankly at a wall, tears streaming down his own face. She smiled sadly at the pair, and the Doctor met her eyes wearily. They shared a look in the silence and Gwen came over to the two men, sitting on the edge of the couch near the Doctor. Rhys joined her, arms on her shoulders protectively, and so in this way Ianto Jones was mourned: by a lover, by a friend, by a mere acquaintance, and by an almost-stranger. Mourned in silence, in the darkness of the living room, in the still of the night.