After the chaos, Ianto nearly welcomes the silence that settles in the warehouse. At the officer's discreet sign, two men in uniform take Steven's body away. Alice wraps her jacket around her, as if to keep the cold away, and follows them. Jack takes a couple of steps towards her, but the look she shoots him – empty, angry, blaming – stops him on his tracks.
"What would like us to do with Mr Dekker, Agent Johnson?" The officer shakes his head. The soldier nods, and takes the old man away. He's not sure he wants to know what she just authorized. His eyes are still on Jack, immobile, as if frozen where he stands. He wants to do something, but what? And why?
"She'll come around, Captain." Johnson moves towards Jack, a hint of uncertainty in her voice. "You just saved every child on the planet. She'll see that, eventually." Jack lets out a sigh, and Ianto can nearly hear something breaking inside him as he turns around and faces her.
"She's her mother's daughter, Agent. She won't come around." A pause, as Jack brings up a tired smile. "And I can't blame her for it." There it is again, that... acceptance, even resignation, when people walk away from him. Where does it come from? "Now, if you could lend us a vehicle, we have a long drive back to Cardiff." Cardiff? Images flash through his head again. Cardiff sounds like home. "Gwen and Rhys may also need transport. I doubt she wants to sit in a car with me right now."
Without much protest, she gets one of her men to hand over a set of keys, still insisting that it would be best if they had someone drive them. Jack flatly refuses, slipping them in the pocket of the RAF greatcoat he's picked up from a chair. Someone hands him a suit jacket, and he puts it on before he realizes what he's doing. It feels... uncomfortably familiar, to be so overdressed in the middle of all this chaos.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
He has to pick up his pace to keep up with Jack the moment the soldier that escorted them out leaves them. He wants to call after him, but what can he say? How can he explain that he can't remember him, or how he came to be here, or what he's been doing with his life in the last few years? Sure, there are snatches, here and there. London, Cardiff. But, no real information. What did he do? Where did he work? Taking a deep breath, he forces himself not to panic. It's not going to help right now.
He is brought back to reality when he bumps into Jack, just standing there, a hand on the roof of the oversized vehicle. Before he can even take a step back, Jack turns around and... crashes. Hands fist on his jacket, crumpling the material. Jack pulls him closer, rests his head rests on his shoulder, and he can feel more than hear the sobs, the trembling, the pain.
"Why?" A single word, repeated over and over again in a voice so broken it hurts him. He wants to say something, anything, even though he has no idea why he cares so much for this man. A man who just killed a child. To save millions, apparently, but killed a child. Maybe he cares because Jack seems capable of taking the harshest decisions and doing the most terrible things despite knowing the consequences will hit him like this.
It's only when Jack seems to calm down a bit that he realizes he's got his arms around him, one hand gently patting a shoulder, the other one holding Jack's head. Slowly, Jack's hands relax, let go of his jacket and slide down, settling on his waist, under his jacket, and there is something oddly familiar about the way the fingers dig onto his skin. He swallows the knot on his throat, despite his tie being dangerously close to choking him right now, and curses under his breath.
"There was nothing else I could do..." He nods. Of course there wasn't. He wouldn't have done it if there had been other options. Why can't he get himself to say anything? What could he say that would help, anyway? He wants to scream he doesn't have the slightest clue about who he is, or why he is here, but he doesn't; he's too busy shivering when Jack's lips barely ghost on his neck. As if his body remembered something he doesn't. The idea of stepping away doesn't even enter his mind until after Jack pats his back, stands up again and, blinking away the tears, brings the keys out of his pocket.
"Would you like me to drive?" The question leaves his mouth before he realizes he has no idea exactly where they are, or where they are going. Jack shakes his head and opens his mouth. For a second, Ianto is certain he is about to say he is okay, he can manage, or some other similar lie. Then Jack closes his mouth again, as if he had had second thoughts about what to say.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
He's lost in thought by the time the vehicle leaves the industrial estate. Questions pop in his head, without any kind of order. What is Torchwood? Who is he? Why does Jack trust him so much as to allow him to see his moments of defeat? What exactly has been going on? Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Jack, one hand on the wheel, head leaning on the other, elbow resting on the door. He wants to ask, but the silence feels too comfortable to break it just yet.
"So... would now be a good time to tell you I can't remember you?" Jack looks at him, a shocked expression in his face.
"You what?" Jack brakes in a way that makes him wince – that cannot be good for the tyres. Luckily, at this time of the night there's not much traffic in the motorway.
"I... can't remember you. I have no idea what is going on, what just happened back in that warehouse, or how I came to be there." He shrugs and loosens his tie a little.
"What is the last thing you remember?" There's concern in Jack's voice, even a bit of panic, as he stops the car in the hard shoulder. As if this had happened before.
"It's... complicated. I remember the woman that slapped you. Gwen. Sort of." He looks at his feet, unable of holding Jack's worried gaze. "I remember bringing her coffee. I remember shopping in Cardiff. Picking up dry-cleaning, buying stationary. I know I like pepperoni pizza and can't stand instant coffee. But... I can't remember where I live, or what I do for a living. I don't even know if I have family there."
"Gwen mentioned something had happened to everybody at Thames house, but I thought you... I mean, nothing seemed wrong, I though you..." When he looks up, Jack's leaning on the head rest, looking at the roof of the car, biting his lips. "I'm sorry, Ianto. I should have..."
"You had other things in your mind." He tries to smile. Saving the world must always come first, of that he is certain.
"So you don't remember Torchwood. Not even Torchwood One?" He shakes his head. "And you have forgotten almost everybody?" He nods. Jack sighs. For a moment, Jack looks lost, even more than he did in the warehouse, when faced with decisions no man should ever be. When he looks at him again, there's so much pain in those eyes he's not entirely sure how Jack manages to keep the smile on his lips. "Let's get you home. We'll sort this out. I promise."
Taking a deep breath, Jack starts the car again, and drives into the night. Somehow, Ianto believes that promise.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
As the SUV screeches to a halt, the sudden stop jerks him out of the thoughts that have been spinning in his head since he told Jack about his memory loss. Without the noise of the engine, the silence becomes oppressive. He looks around: it's a quiet street, Victorian terraced houses on both sides, with carefully tended gardens and a general well-kept look. It seems oddly familiar, yet he feels oddly out of place here. Cathays, Cardiff.
"Come on. Home for you, Mr. Jones." Jack unbuckles his seat belt and jumps out of the car. Slowly, he follows him up the path to the carefully varnished wooden door. The kicked-in, carefully varnished wooden door. Something inside him cringes. "I'm afraid Johnson and her men may have paid you a visit a few days ago." Jack leans down and undoes his boots, taking them off before stepping in and leaving them on a shoe rack. He turns around as he switches on the light, pointing at his shoes. "I'd take those off if I were you. It annoys you when people walk on your carpet."
Jack smiles, a tired smile that makes the weirdness of the last day vanish a little. He knows, rationally, that he should be freaked out by all this. Waking up not knowing where he was. Trying to remember how he had gotten there in the first place, and finding more gaps than memories. Yet he isn't, and he can't understand why.
"Coming in?" Jack's voice is soft and carefree; he can't even begin to imagine how he manages that, after the events of the day. Shaking his head, he takes off his own shoes and places them by Jack's boots. The sight is oddly comforting. He finds that feeling slightly unsettling, knowing something is right, even if he can't remember why.
"Shouldn't I be the one inviting you in?" He gives Jack a tired smile. Do they normally tease each other like this, as if they were children with nothing to worry about? He closes the door behind him as best as he can, making a mental note to have it repaired in the morning, and makes his way down the hall. The place feels... familiar. Like a house he knows but hasn't visited in a long time.
"Oh God." He stops on his tracks when he walks into the living room. "Tell me this is not how my house normally looks like." Knocked furniture, books, DVDs and cushions strewn everywhere. Jack comes up beside him, having lost his coat somewhere.
"Ah, so, now I can come in?" No anger, just good humoured banter. Where does the man find the strength for that after everything that has happened? "No, this is not how your place normally looks." With a tired sigh, he starts picking things, making neat piles, trying to free up space to upright shelves. "Yes, that's more how you keep it." He pauses for a second and turns around to face Jack.
"Are you going to stand there and watch me clean all night?" It comes out a bit sharper than he intends, but he's had a hell of a day, all he wants right now is to fall in his bed, hide his head under the covers, and wake up in the morning to find it was all a nightmare.
"I could always leave, if you want me to." He pauses for a second, halfway through bringing one of the bookcases back to its place.
"Where would you go?" He pushes the bookcase a bit more, getting it to stand, and starts placing books on it. Jack walks to the breakfast bar that separates the kitchen from the front room and leans on it, eyes following his every move.
"Don't know. Got not Hub to go back to, but I'd find somewhere." He swallows, hand mechanically returning more books to the shelves. Something inside him is screaming, shouting not to let Jack out of his sight tonight, because he shouldn't be alone. Because neither of them should have to face their demons alone tonight.
"No need to." Barely a whisper. Jack raises an eyebrow. He takes a deep breath and holds his gaze. "Besides, I really could do with a hand in all this chaos." And some answers, as well. If he can get himself to ask the questions.
Without a word, Jack heads for the other corner of the room, and starts clearing up. For a while, they both work in silence. His head is spinning. It takes nearly an hour before the sofa is finally clear and he can collapse onto it, taking off his tie and leaving it on the table. Putting down two bottles of beer he's just taken out from the fridge, Jack sits beside him.
"Why do I trust you?" He's not looking at Jack, he can't. He knows the questions he wants to ask will probably hurt, and he can't get himself to watch. "I don't know you, I don't remember ever meeting you, yet I trust you. You killed your own grandson, in front of me. Yet I believe you, when you say there was no other way." He swallows nervously. "Why?" It takes a lot of determination to turn his head towards Jack. Frozen, with his beer halfway between the table and his lips, Jack looks at his feet.
"We have worked together for... three years." A sigh, a tired, exhausted sigh. "We are... were... Torchwood. What you've seen today, saving the world regardless of the price to pay... that's what we do." Jack takes a sip, and leans back on the sofa. "We catch aliens. Most of the time, we sweep everything under the carpet and nobody notices."
"And sometimes, like today, it explodes right under your... our... noses?" Jack grimaces, closing his eyes for a moment.
"Suppose you could say that." Silence, again. That rare silence that feels comfortable. Putting his beer down, he undoes his waistcoat and drapes it over the back of the sofa, still wondering why on earth he's so overdressed. If he really catches aliens for a living, it surely would make more sense to wear practical clothes to work.
"So, that's it?" Jack nods. "We work together, and that's enough for me to trust you even when I don't even know who you are?" There's got to be something else. Jack sighs, and looks at him. He swallows, not entirely sure why, and takes a nervous sip of his beer.
"We are partners."
Page 4 of 4