Title: He Bared His Heart on Valentine's Day
Characters/Pairings: Jack/Ianto
Word Count: ~1000
Rating: PG13
Spoilers: Occurs after Exit Wounds.
Warning: Angsty dark stuff. Some gore. Violent imagery? Business as usual.
Disclaimer: I do not own Torchwood. I do not make money off of Torchwood. In fact, it seems as though Torchwood owns and makes money off of ME. This is for entertainment purposes only.
Author's Note: Written for jack_ianto_las over on LiveJournal. The prompt was "Valentine's Day."
He Bared His Heart on Valentine's Day
The rain-dampened alleyway would have sparkled like glass if the full moon overhead hadn't been cloaked by clouds. As it was, the only readily available light came from the dull combination of Ianto's swiftly dimming torch and a cluster of distant amber streetlamps. He swung the torch in a broad arc as his eyes followed the faint yellow beam, sweeping cautiously over his surroundings: crumbling brickwork, rusted chain-link fence, dilapidated dumpster.
The area was still secure, at least.
The wintry gusts did nothing to cool him; instead, they only served to heighten the contrast of his flushed skin. His heartbeat throbbed intensely in his ears as he attempted to breathe with a more natural rhythm.
He and Jack had been a brisk ten minutes' walk from the restaurant, and even then they had been dangerously close to losing their reservation. It had taken Gwen's persistent reassurance to finally get them to leave the Hub.
"I have access to all our contacts," she had grumbled when Jack had insisted on scrawling Martha's mobile number on the back of her hand. "Now go. Don't want to get caught in the rush."
"We'll be back by half seven so you can make your reservation with Rhys," Ianto promised as he shrugged into his coat.
She had nodded impatiently and herded them onto the lift. "Go! And have fun!"
"You'll call if –"
"Yes, Jack." She laughed and gave a little wave as they rose above her head. "Everything will be fine. Enjoy yourselves!"
Ianto ran a shaky hand through his hair as he recalled her bright, optimistic smile.
A rush of frigid air tunneled suddenly down the narrow passageway and struck Ianto in the face with the warm, heavy scents of rotting garbage, acrid cigarette smoke, and metallic blood. So much blood. He had to swallow twice to suppress the bile rising in his throat.
Breathing through his mouth, he surveyed the scene. Jack's Webley glinted in the light of the torch like a flickering beacon. To the left of the fallen weapon, a Weevil lay sprawled on its back. The bullet had pierced its chest cleanly, though the shot had been fired in haste and at close range.
If he hadn't been pushed out of the way, Ianto was absolutely certain that he would have been injured. The angle of the attack would have resulted in a painful bite to his shoulder; it would have needed a thorough flushing, a good dressing, maybe even stitches, but he wouldn't be dead.
No, that particular honor had been bestowed upon the self-sacrificing fool who had shoved Ianto out of the way, taking the brunt of teeth and claws to his chest – the fool who was now a heap of brittle bone and ashen flesh, resting in a glistening pool of his own thick, syrupy blood.
Ianto had hardly been inured to the many deaths of Jack Harkness, but he had always been able to adopt a professional demeanor that adequately tamped down the overwhelming grief and panic. This time, though, proved to be too much.
One tentative step forward. Another. Soon, Ianto managed to cross the short distance to Jack's body. He knelt on the rough, wet ground behind the stiffening corpse, momentarily grateful that he had allowed Jack to coerce him into a pair of jeans, and let the dead weight of Jack's head rest against him. The torch fell gracelessly from his hand.
The image was still embedded on the delicate backs of his eyelids. The torn shreds of raw flesh, red and moist, had left Jack's shattered ribs exposed. And there. Right there. It was framed by gore, barely noticeable in the gloom except where the light of the torch caught it. His heart. His heart. Ianto had watched as it beat out a final pulse. It had ticked a pathetic distress signal – a weak, stuttering contraction. Lub-dub. Lub-d….
It wasn't pastel pink or lace-edged or symmetrical. It didn't have cloyingly cute sayings etched onto its surface, nor was it filled with rich, dark chocolate. It was an ugly red-brown lump of muscle and it gave out right in front of him, embarrassingly bare and ultimately useless.
It was the byproduct of his overactive imagination, he knew, but he swore that he could hear that organ's final rattling magnified in his ears. The failing thump looped and reverberated in his brain. It was enough to drive him mad.
Ianto used one hand to scrub his eyes of the grisly portrait while the other absentmindedly stroked Jack's mussed hair. He hazarded a glance down, steeling himself for the worst, but the tissue was already tenaciously knitting itself back together.
A moment after his cells had completed their improbable regeneration, Jack burst to life in Ianto's arms with a sharp, jagged gasp. The weight of him lessened almost instantaneously, as if consciousness were made of helium. Ianto tightened his grasp.
"You're fine," he soothed, contorting to press chapped lips to the crown of Jack's head. "I'm here."
Jack's eyes darted around frantically as his memory returned in fits and starts. Finally, he sighed.
"Ianto –"
"What were you thinking?" Ianto chastised, though his soft voice bore only a small trace of scorn.
Jack gave a meager shrug and struggled to stand up. Ianto reached for Jack's extended hand and roused his aching muscles into action. As soon as he was upright, he was pulled into Jack's arms; whether the gesture was intended as an apology or a reassurance, Ianto wasn't quite certain. He accepted it either way.
"Thought I'd tie a red ribbon around his neck for you. You know – a gift?"
"A Weevil? How thoughtful. Always wanted one," Ianto muttered and rolled his eyes.
He pressed a hand to Jack's chest, just above his heart. There was more comfort than usual in its steady cadence as he attempted to banish the interrupted stammer that haunted his thoughts.
Lub-dub. Lub-dub. Lub-dub.
The End