Torchwood. Outside the government, beyond the police. And, unfortunately, beyond my ownership, otherwise Owen woulda bit it in the first season and Ianto would have survived the third. Just sayin'…
~~~tw~~~
Jack came awake with a throat-tearing gasp, clawing at his chest where the bullet had pierced his heart.
His hands were caught in a firm but gentle grip, keeping him from tearing his own flesh, holding him fast. Reflexively, Jack gripped hold of the person who was holding him, nails digging into the fine fabric of Ianto's jacket. He only gradually came to realize that his head, instead of broken against the concrete sidewalk where he had fallen, was pillowed on his lover's chest, the curve of his body cradled against Ianto's.
He fought for control of his breathing, forcing each shuddering breath to stay longer and longer in his mended lungs, holding himself together by sheer force of will until his body learned to do it on its own once again. His death grip on Ianto eased, and Ianto's grip on him relaxed until Jack's resurrection crisis abated.
"Where's Gwen?" he asked, his breathing still quicker than he would like it.
Ianto nodded down the darkened street. "She's chasing the guy who shot you; Tosh and Owen circled around to head him off."
Jack frowned. "And you're not with them because…?" Distractedly, he touched his chest. The bullet-hole was gone from his skin, but not from his shirt. His newly-mended heart was running fast, like it was trying to make up for the minute he'd spent dead.
Ianto shrugged. "They had enough people. I had to make sure you were okay."
"I'm always okay."
Ianto brushed his hand across Jack's forehead, smoothing back his hair, his other arm resting across his lover's chest. "I know you always survive. It doesn't mean you're always okay." He brushed his lips against Jack's cheek. "You never see your eyes when you first wake up from one of these things," he murmured. "It's like you're coming back from hell, and it takes you a minute to realize that you're safe." He hugged Jack to him, fiercely.
Jack laid his head back against Ianto's shoulder, letting the tension in his body leak out. He reached up to hang his hand off of Ianto's clasped ones, squeezing tightly, both reassured and reassuring. "Thanks, Ianto," he breathed. His heart and lungs settled down into their normal rhythms at last, and he turned his head for a kiss, truncated by the return of the rest of the team, their shooter (sans gun, thankfully) in tow.
Later that night, after a reassuringly vibrant display of renewed vitality, Jack pushed a sweat-soaked lock of hair from his lover's forehead, studying Ianto with keen intensity. At his inquiry, Jack just shrugged.
"I just can't imagine what it would be like to watch you die," he said, in that too-casual way of his that meant it was deadly important. "It's too terrifying to think about. But you've seen me die… how many times now?"
"More than I care to recall," Ianto admitted, reluctantly. "It... never gets any easier, even knowing you always come out of it."
They lay in silence for a time, holding one another. Just before sleep took them, Jack pulled Ianto in close and murmured, "I'm glad when you're there to bring me home."
No other words passed between them, but none had to. Ianto drifted off to sleep in his lover's arms, silently vowing that Jack would never awaken alone again.