They Killed Ianto Jones
John resisted the urge to floor the gas pedal and speed the final three miles to his home. After all, it was semi-rural Cardiff, and he was on a quiet back road densely lined with huge old trees. The only other people who ever used the road were the residents of the three houses that sat between the turn-off from the main road and his and Scott's own house, the last one on the lane. Only he and Scott were full-time residents; two of the other three houses were used mainly for weekend getaways and Bank Holidays. The third and closest to John and Scott's was owned by some wealthy Americans who came over to Wales once a year, for the Christmas holidays. Otherwise, the three houses sat empty.
Meantime, while he'd been debating the issue with himself, he had reached the gates to his home. Reaching up, he pushed the automatic opener, drove through, and then clicked to close the gates behind him.
Leaving the Jaguar parked in the drive, and making sure the windows were up – you know Cardiff and the rain – John removed and turned off his Bluetooth, slipping it into the front pocket of his messenger bag as he swung it over his head and settled it on his shoulder. Going around to the back of the Jag, John grabbed his bag and their dry cleaning from the boot and went inside the house.
"Honey, I'm home!" Those three words were John's favourite thing to say whenever he walked through the door. He even said it when he knew that Scott was still in London and that other than the dogs, their house was empty. He really enjoyed having someone to come home to; Scott made him feel loved and happy, safe and secure, warm and cherished. This time his call to his partner was lost amongst the happy barking and whinging of their three dogs. John quickly stashed his gear in the hall closet and knelt on the hallway floor to play with the dogs. They always gave John a warm, fuzzy feeling whenever he came home, especially if he'd been away for a while.
"You guys are always so happy to see Daddy come home, aren't you?" He went up and down the line, patting, scratching and rubbing happy doggie bodies. "Yes, you are! Oh yes, you are. My silly boys," John crooned to the canines. "Daddy missed you too, yes, he did!"
"Don't suppose I can get my belly rubbed like that?"
John shot upright and was at his partner's side before the man finished his sentence. He wrapped his arms around Scott and hugged him, holding him so tightly that Scott began to squirm a little.
"Um, John?" Scott whispered in the younger man's ear. "Hey, lover-boy!" He nuzzled his lips behind John's ear, finding that oh-so-sensitive spot that was guaranteed to get John's attention.
"Mmmm?" John moved his head a little farther to the side to allow Scott more access to his neck.
"I can't breathe, love," Scott whispered in his lover's ear. "You're squishing me!"
John loosened his grip, but only slightly. "You don't know how much I've missed holding you, honey," John murmured back. "Holding you, holding your hand, just being able to touch you."
Scott pulled his head back as far as he could and tried to look at John. "Hey, look at me." John gave his head the smallest of shakes no and buried his face in the crook between Scott's neck and shoulder.
"John, open your eyes and look at me," Scott commanded quietly. He knew that this intense need for John to hold him this way meant that John had had a really bad day at work. John rarely ever allowed things that occurred at work to affect him, so it didn't happen very often, but when it did, John needed all the comfort that Scott could give.
Opening his eyes, John found a spot on Scott's collar to look at.
"Nope. None of that." Scott put his hand under John's chin and lifted the man's head upwards until their eyes met. Instantly, John's gaze skittered away, looking over Scott's shoulder.
"Look me in the eyes, John. Now." Scott held on to his chin and waited until John slowly shifted his gaze to look Scott directly in the eye. "Tell me what's wrong?" Scott's voice was soft and gentle, and he followed his request with a tender, chaste kiss on his lover's lips.
That was the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back. Without warning, tears welled up in John's eyes and began sliding down his cheeks, and he buried his head in Scott's shoulder, his body shaking silently.
"Shhh… 's all right." Scott held him close, one hand cupped behind John's head, his fingers swirling through the soft hair at the base of John's skull, caressing his head, while his other hand stroked the length of John's back, comforting him with the physical contact that he needed so desperately. "I'm here, baby, it's okay." They swayed together, slow gentle movements, just the two of them.
There was no sound in the hall except the ticking of the wall clock, the soft sounds of rustling cloth and an occasional sniffle from John. Even the dogs were lying quietly; they could sense that something was wrong, and they waited patiently for it to be over so they could play again.
After several minutes, John gave a final sniff and lifted his head, looking at Scott and giving him a watery smile. "I love you, Scott Gill," he whispered, the last few tears caught in his eye lashes.
"I love you, John Barrowman." Scott kissed the twin tear tracks on John's cheeks and then withdrew from John's arms, never completely letting him go. Taking his hand, Scott led the way into the lounge and sat John down on the sofa. He crossed over to the sideboard, poured a shot of whiskey and handed it over to his lover. Scott waited while John tossed the alcohol back, sending a burning trail down his throat into his stomach, where it remained a warm glow in his belly and then he returned the glass to the drinks tray. Finally, he knelt at John's feet.
Quickly untying his shoelaces, Scott slid the trainers off John's feet and pushed them under the coffee table. Next, he pulled John's socks off and tossed them in the general direction of the hall; he'd worry about taking them to the laundry room later. Raising the left foot onto his thigh, Scott used his thumbs to massage the bottom of John's foot, paying attention to the reflexology points that were in the crease right at the base of the big toe – those were connected to the neck.
Scott also worked his fingers into the outer edge of the pad of John's foot, just below the little toe; this spot was related to the shoulders. John carried a lot of his tension in his neck and shoulder muscles. He had scolded John so many times about slouching; 'if you'd just sit up straight, your neck and shoulders wouldn't get all cramped up like they do.'
After a few minutes, Scott switched his attention to John's right foot, following the same pattern. He kept his eyes on his partner who was slumped into the sofa, his head back, his eyes closed, his breathing slow and steady.
"Feeling better?" he asked softly, not really wanting to disturb John. He barely heard the soft grunt of satisfaction. Leaning back, Scott managed to grab the bottle of hand lotion from the table behind him. He squeezed out a large dollop into his hand and rubbed his palms together to warm it up. He knew first-hand how unpleasant a shock it was to have cold lotion dumped on you without warning.
Quickly, Scott massaged the lotion into John's feet, and then sat back to rub what remained into his own hands and elbows. He stayed where he was for a moment, just looking at John. He derived so much enjoyment from just looking at his lover. There were times when John could be the most tender, loving man Scott had ever seen. Then there were times when he could be so innocent and child-like, taking pleasure in the little things, like a rainbow after a summer storm or a cup of freshly-brewed coffee.
"Scottie," John broke the silence. "They killed Gareth!" he whispered, unable to trust his voice not to break.
"What!" Scott leapt to his feet, his face as white as a sheet. "Oh, my God! John, what happened?" He began to pace, running his fingers roughly through his hair. "When did this happen?"
Scott's mind was racing. 'Had it been an RTA? No, John clearly said "they killed Gareth", so it meant it was deliberate. Could it have been...?' Scott tried to picture things from police shows off the telly. Maybe Gareth... was he in the wrong place at the wrong time? 'What if it was a robbery gone bad, which would make it…' His mind faltered for a moment. 'Things like this don't happen to people like us. No one we know gets murdered!'
"John?" Finally noticing that the younger man had said nothing since his announcement, Scott sat down next to John on the sofa, wrapping his arms around the man and pulling him in close. "Honey, talk to me. Tell me what the police have said." He kissed John's cheek and laid his head against John's. "What did they tell you when you talked to them?"
"What?" John frowned. He knew Scott had said something, but it didn't seem right. "What did you say?"
"The police. What have they said so far? Do they have any leads, any suspects?" Scott's stomach clenched and he could feel the burn of acid starting to rise in his throat. "John, tell me what happened. Oh, God... Please tell me you weren't there when it happened!"
"Well of course I was there, Scott!" John snapped sharply. "How else would I know what's going to happen?"
Frowning, Scott's eyes narrowed and he opened and closed his mouth as if to speak several times, in the classic 'looks like a guppy' movement. Then he spoke.
"I thought you said, and I quote, 'they killed Gareth'. So, excuse me for being concerned about your welfare, given the million scenarios that have been running through my mind over the past five minutes or so." Even though he hadn't intended it to sound so sharp, Scott's voice had acquired quite an edge to it.
Shaking his head, John pulled himself from his reverie and then withdrew from Scott's arms. His mind had finally finished processing everything that Scott had been saying over the last few minutes.
"Oh, my God, Scott!" John leaned forward and kissed Scott's forehead, then the tip of his nose and finally his lips. His kiss changed from being merely reassuring and comforting at the beginning to fervent and promising by the time he lifted his head.
"Honey, I am so sorry. This is all my fault." John worked hard to keep the giggles that were tickling the back of his throat from escaping. "I didn't mean… I mean, it isn't…" The giggles disappeared as the reality sank in again.
Closing his eyes and drawing a deep breath, John took Scott's hands in his. When he reopened his eyes, they shone brightly with unshed tears, and he said,
"They killed Ianto Jones."
A single tear slid down John's cheek as he looked at his partner of nearly twenty years, willing him to understand.
"Todd – he's another new runner, like the third this month – brought our scripts around for Series Three of Torchwood. They're calling it 'Children of Earth'. Anyway, Eve laughed and motioned at Gareth's script and said…" John's voice caught in his throat, and his grip tightened on Scott's hands.
Scott waited patiently. He had a funny feeling he knew where this was leading, but he didn't want to interrupt. Sometimes, with John, it was best to simply let him tell his story in his own way. He leaned forward and brushed his lips against John's in a chaste, tender kiss.
John squared his shoulders and continued. "Eve said, 'Doesn't look like you're gonna have too much to say, Gareth!' So, he leafs through the pages and all of a sudden, it's like someone just punched him in the gut. He went white as a sheet and almost missed the chair behind him when he went to sit down."
Now that he'd started talking, the words poured out of John. "Gareth just looked at us and then at the paper and then back at us, shaking like a leaf. Eve ran over and threw her arms around him, you know, like she does, knocking the papers from Gareth's hands. So, I pick them up and I started looking through the script, and there it was, in black and pink…"
John paused when he saw Scott's raised eyebrows. "Pink just means that until we actually sit down and do a verbal run-through, things aren't set in stone. The writers or director could still make changes." Silently, Scott nodded in comprehension.
"Anyway, this Series Three only has five episodes in it, and at the end of the fourth episode…" John paused again, remembering how his stomach had dropped and his heart had stopped as he'd read the words printed on the paper. Scott could feel the change in John a second before he started to shake again, and he gathered John back into his arms.
As Scott rubbed his back, John rested his head on Scott's shoulder and gulped. "At the end of day four, Ianto Jones dies." Those final nine words came out a whisper.
"How?"
"An evil alien poisons him and Captain Jack. Jack comes back, Ianto doesn't."
"Don't they magically resurrect him somehow?"
"Nope."
"But why not? Everyone loves the romance between Jack and Ianto!" Scott was perplexed. Even he liked seeing his gorgeous husband flirting and romancing the equally gorgeous Welshman. Fans adored the character of Ianto Jones, and both he and John enjoyed spending time with Gareth and his girlfriend.
"Don't really know," John tried to shrug nonchalantly.
"Maybe it's one of those secret things, nobody knows about it til the last second, and then bang! Ianto Jones lives, right?" Scott asked hopefully.
He rather enjoyed reaping the benefits of having his partner performing love scenes with Ianto Jones. He was especially fond of the entire weekend he and John had spent in bed after the filming of the very sexy scene in the Hub's greenhouse. John had laughed so hard when he'd told Scott about how Eve Myles couldn't deliver her one line with a straight face, causing the scene to be reshot time and again. When John had gotten home that night they hadn't even made it upstairs before they were naked and making love on the floor of the lounge, in front of the fireplace.
"No."
John's voice broke and he slumped against Scott, emotionally drained. The entire drive from Cardiff home, he'd been going over and over the scene in his head. He had come up with seven plausible ways of bringing the character of Ianto Jones back to life. Each one was just as believable as the next, and they all stayed true to canon.
"Well, I don't understand why not." Scott frowned as he pulled back from his lover and took hold of John's face with both hands. "Is this the end of Torchwood after this series?" He hated to ask the question, knowing just how much of himself John poured into his character.
Captain Jack Harkness was larger than life, and John played him to the hilt, putting so much of himself into the role. Even though it meant leaving the sanctuary that was their home, John actually looked forward to returning to work each week, despite the fifteen hour or more days, even those spent out in the inevitable Cardiff rain.
John got a funny look on his face. "I never thought of that!" he exclaimed. "Nobody's said anything, I haven't heard any rumours about it ending." They both knew that the rumour mill worked twenty-eight hours a day, churning out everything from the actual truth to outrageous stories even a corpse would laugh at. He shrugged. "I really don't know, Scott." He looked thoughtful for a moment. "I hope not. I'm really having a great time with this. I don't want to stop playing Jack Harkness. Not yet, anyway. There's so much more to do, so many more stories to tell." John got a wicked grin on his face.
"Besides, Jack hasn't shagged anything with tentacles yet!"
John burst out laughing and didn't notice until too late that Scott was lunging for him, pushing him back onto the couch. He was laughing so hard that he couldn't defend his oh-so-ticklish tummy and sides from very persistent fingers.
"How's this for tentacles!" Scott showed no mercy as he relentlessly worked and wiggled his fingers up and down John's midriff and sides. He knew exactly where the most sensitive spots were, and he wasted no time in attacking each one.
"Guh! St… stop!" John was gasping for breath now. When Scott was in full tickle-monster mode, he was ruthless. "Scott! I… breathe!" John writhed on the couch, held down by Scott, who was kneeling astride his legs. He was trapped.
Scott grinned evilly, looking down at his lover. "What's the magic word?" He focused all his tickling efforts into one single finger, which was paused above John's body. Slowly, he spiralled his finger downwards, knowing that John's eyes were completely fixated on that one digit.
"Joooohn? What's the magic word?"
With mere millimetres left before Scott's pointer finger began tickling his belly button, John surrendered.
"I give!" he grumbled with a twinkle in his eye. "Smoochie!"
Scott cocked his head. "What was that?" His finger tip barely grazed John's belly button through his shirt, but the contact was enough send a wave of ripples across the muscles of John's belly. "I didn't quite hear you."
"Smoochie!" John yelled. "Smoochie, smoochie, smoochie!"
Epilogue
"Tell you what, I don't have to be in Glasgow for panto rehearsals for nine weeks. Why don't we take a long week and go somewhere warm and sunny? I know! Let's go back to Aruba and go wreck diving again. We've only seen a few of the ships down there, and we could just totally relax and forget all about Torchwood for a while."
John caressed Scott's cheek, waiting for an answer to his suggestion. He could see the wheels turning in Scott's mind, knowing that mentally, he was going through his schedule, rearranging things to find a suitable opening.
"Let's see. We'd need at least ten days' total, preferably more. One day each way for travel, plus at least one day home afterwards before we – well, I – have to go back to work. So, that would give us a minimum of seven days in Aruba, two for travel and one for recovery, laundry and whatnot."
Scott ticked off the days on his fingers and then reconsidered. "How about we make it two weeks instead? We'll still need those three travel days, but that gives us eleven full days on the island. Sound like a plan?" His thinking out loud complete, Scott smiled at John. "I'll call my office in the morning and get Estelle working on travel plans and rearranging my schedule. With luck, we'll be out of here in about two and a half, three weeks, maybe even less. Sound good?"
Grinning from ear-to-ear, John let out a whoop that brought the dogs running. "You are brilliant, you are!" He pulled Scott to his feet and danced him around the room, the dogs running and jumping and barking around them.
"I love you, Scott Gill," he poured his love for his partner into every word.
"I love you, John Barrowman." A brilliant smile lit up Scott's face. "I love you so much."
end