Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. No copyright infringement is intended.

AN: This story is rated M. It is dark and not fluffy. This is Jack/Ianto and there will be some scenes of them together (although, not too explicit.) I am not cruel; there will be resolution/happily-ever-after (or at least fairly-happy-after) for the characters. I promise not to kill them. This could be placed somewhere in the realm of Reset if I forced to pick a time, but I can't kill Owen, so therefore this is AU.


Chasing Dragons

Chapter 1

The alley was dark and smelled of stale urine and garbage. The only light was the faint flickering glow of the streetlight in the distance. Ianto knew where he was going, though. The darkness didn't bother him. That was why he'd come here so late, to ensure he would go unseen. The shadows both thrilled him and sent shivers down his spine. It made him feel alive.

The air was cool and a light rain had begun to fall. That was one thing that one could always count on in Wales, the rain. He liked the rain. It washed away the evidence of nights like these.

He reached in his pocket and pulled his knife, gripping the handle with practiced grace. His steps barely made a sound as he slinked through the shadows.

There was no way to know how many were there, waiting, but he walked forward. If he were to die here, he wouldn't regret it. The rush, the feeling of fighting, blood flowing, was one he wouldn't exchange for anything.

The smell in the alley changed; there was a musky, bitter odor in the air now. The prey had taken the bait. There was a low rumbling sound coming from beside the dumpster. He stepped cautiously toward it, holding the knife tightly. He thought back to the first time he had done this and the feeling it brought. He couldn't wait to have it again. Charging forward, he tore at its flesh with his blade.

Adrenaline pumped through him, the high he craved was back. Blood covered his hands, mixing with the rain water and running into the puddles by his feet. He momentarily lost his footing on the slick ground and a sharp pain shot through him. He looked down at chest, stunned at the sight. The fabric was torn and the skin beneath split open, blood flowing freely. The pain was enough to send him into a frenzy. He lost control and stabbed at the body until long after it stilled.

Exhausted, he fell to his knees, arms aching, and looked at what he'd done.

Part of him felt sick at the sight, but another was exhilarated. Rainwater and blood dripped down his face, stinging his eyes. He wiped his brow with his sleeve and slipped the knife back into its sheath. He stood and grabbed the body by its feet, dragging it towards the nearest manhole. He pulled off the cover and dropped the lifeless body in.

Replacing the cover, he looked around. The rain was doing its job of washing away the evidence. No one would know by morning what he had done.

The adrenaline wore off and the pain from his wound began to rage. He gritted his teeth and pressed against it. The fabric was saturated with blood. He needed to get home and treat it before infection set in. There would be no way to explain a wound like this to the team.

When he reached his car, he opened the back and took out his rucksack. It was kept there just for these nights. There were towels, bandages, trash bags, hatchet, rope and a small first aid kit. He reached for the towels and pressed one to his wound. He didn't bother trying to examine it closely. The bleeding seemed to be slowing. He laid the other towel to the front seat, covering it to prevent his blood from staining the leather.

By the time he reached his home, the high he had felt earlier was completely gone. It seemed to last less and less each time. It worried him.

Once inside, he peeled off his layers until he was standing in only his jeans. He grimaced as he saw the two gashes that lay just over his heart. He dabbed at the wounds with the towel and winced.

Keeping the towel pressed in place, he walked to the bathroom and retrieved his first aid kit, bringing it back to the kitchen. He flipped the light on and sat down at the table. He tossed the bloodied towel on the chair beside him and opened the kit.

The gashes were too jagged to be glued back together, so he would have to try and use the steri-strips. He wiped the area down with alcohol, gritting his teeth at the burn. He secured it the best he could and covered it with a gauze pad. It would have to do.

He stood and began straightening the mess around him, bloodied gauze and scraps of paper were scattered across the table. He folded up the kit and carried into the bathroom, putting it back on its shelf.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and stared at the reflection. He looked like a ghost, pale and eyes darkened from lack of sleep. He sighed and looked away, stripping off his jeans and boxers. He considered a shower, but his body ached and begged to be horizontal so he trudged out of the room and to his bed.

Ianto woke with a start. The dream he'd had was so vivid, so real. He scrubbed a hand over his face but paused when the faint light hit his skin. There was blood dried to his fingers, caked under his nails. His stomach lurched and he scurried back from the sight, pushing himself against the headboard. Memories of his dream from the night before came flooding back and he hesitantly looked down at his chest, terrified by what he might see. He sucked in a breath and brought a hand up to touch the bandage, prodding it lightly and hissing in pain when he did.

God, he had killed … It was real …

He threw himself out of the bed and ran to the bathroom to examine himself in the mirror. He looked down at the floor and saw bloodied jeans tossed in a heap. He remembered it all, but it wasn't real. It couldn't be. If it was, that meant all the others were real too. He had been killing … maiming … torturing for months.

The stale scent of blood hit his nose and his stomach heaved. He reached the toilet just in time to purge what little there was inside him. He sat back on his knees and wiped his mouth, leaning his head against the cabinet beside him.

What was he going to do? He curled into a ball and rested his head on his knees. He lost all sense of time as he sat there, replaying every sordid detail of what he'd done. His body grew sore and stiff from sitting there, but he couldn't will himself to move.

A crash drew him from his thoughts and he lifted his head. Whatever the noise was, its creator was coming his way. Loud, heavy steps were coming closer. He dropped his head back down. He didn't care who it was or what they wanted.

"Kitchen's clear," a voice he recognized as Owen's called in the distance.

Shame washed over him. He knew any moment that he would be found, curled up like a pathetic child, covered in blood not all his own. They would see what he was.

Footsteps approached the door. The handle moved slightly and then it swung open. Jack was standing with his Webley drawn, pointed toward him. "Found him. Call the girls and let them know."

Ianto didn't bother hiding the pain on his face. He imagined he looked like he felt, completely broken.

"Ianto?" Jack approached him, holstering his gun. He moved with exaggerated slowness. "Hey, there." He knelt down beside him and reached out to touch Ianto's face.

Jack's brow furrowed. "Ianto, what happened to you?"

He looked up to meet Jack's eyes. He knew he should tell him the truth, but he couldn't. He couldn't have those eyes see him for what he was now. And before he could stop himself, the lies tumbled from his lips.

"I … I was went out last night, walking and there was a noise … a weevil. I should have called you … thought I could handle it." His words were broken and short. His mind was still reeling from the truth of what he'd done.

Jack cupped Ianto's cheek. "You could have been killed."

"Sorry," Ianto whispered, looking up at Jack from beneath his lashes. Jack had no idea how sorry he was.

"How did you end up in here?"

"My stomach was upset … felt sick."

"Owen!" Jack yelled over his shoulder.

"Alright, I've called the girls. They're heading back to the hub." Owen appeared in the doorway, his face becoming concerned as he saw Ianto. "Fuck, what the hell happened to you?"

Owen pushed by Jack and knelt down beside him. "Alright, mate. Let's have a look at you."

The doctor pushed Ianto's legs straight, trying to see the wound beneath the bandage.

The gentle touch was too much and Ianto pulled away, looking wide eyed at Owen. He wanted to confess, to tell them the truth, but the words weren't there. Instead, he just froze, staring at his friend.

"Ianto," Owen said. "I need to take a look at your wound. You understand?"

Ianto brought his arms up and curled them around his head. He understood just fine. He didn't want - didn't deserve - their help. He shook his head and clenched his fingers in his hair. The images were so sharp and fresh in his mind, taunting him, reminding him of the lies he had to tell now.

"Right then." Owen sighed. "Jack, need your help here."

"Ianto, look at me." Jack grabbed his hands and gently uncurled his arms. Ianto let him; Jack was the one person he could never deny. "There you are." Jack smiled. "Can you stand?"

Ianto stared into Jack's eyes. They were so blue, so clear, so trusting. He wondered what they would look like seeing him as the monster he'd become.

"Ianto?" Jack's voice shook him back to the present.

"Yeah, sorry. I can get up."

"Nice and easy." Jack put and arm around him and helped him to his feet, but the action sent a searing pain through his chest and a moan escaped his lips.

Jack wrapped his arms around him and supported his weight, leaning the young Welshman against his chest. "Shh, breathe through it."

He kept his head rested against Jack, letting him ease the pain.

"You okay?" Owen asked him, eyeing him carefully.

Ianto hesitantly took a step forward. "Yeah, I'm okay."

Jack guided him to the bed and sat beside him. He rested his hand on Ianto's thigh, rubbing his thumb back and forth in soothing strokes.

Owen set his bag down and began laying out supplies on the bed. "I'm going to take a look at your wound now."

He didn't watch as Owen peeled back the gauze, but he heard his sharp intake of breath. "This is pretty bad," Owen said, grabbing his penlight and shining it on the wound. "I'm going to need him back at the hub to clean this up properly. Looks like he tried to clean it, but it's deep, the bone is visible on the lower gash."

Jack tensed beside him. "You shouldn't have been alone. I could have lost you." He sighed and leaned closer, pressing a kiss to Ianto's shoulder.

Owen taped a new gauze pad in place. "I know you don't feel like talking, but I need to know if you're hurting anywhere else."

"No, I'm fine."

"He said his stomach was bothering him," Jack interjected.

Owen eyed Ianto disapprovingly and shook his head. "You know better than to lie to me."

"It's nothing, just a stomach bug or something. I feel fine now."

Owen nodded. "Okay. I'll take your word on it for now, but I want you to tell me if you start feeling sick again. I'll find out if you're hiding anything, so you better fess up before I figure it out."

Ianto shook his head and leaned into Jack. "I'm not."

Owen stood and grabbed his bag. "Okay, we need to get him dressed and to the hub so I can treat him properly."

Jack pressed a kiss to his temple and then stood, walking to the closet. Ianto watched, not caring what Jack chose. It didn't matter anymore. Jack returned to his side with a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt.

Ianto didn't comment as Jack picked up his foot and slid it into the pant leg. He repeated it with the other leg and then pulled Ianto to his feet. Jack dressed Ianto with gentle touches, touches that Ianto supposed were meant as comfort, but they only reminded him how undeserving he was.

Ianto stared his hands. The blood still lingered in every crevice, blood he knew wasn't his. In that moment, he made a promise to himself, a promise that it wouldn't happen again. Even if he had to chain himself to the bed every night, he wouldn't let it happen again.