Fore notes: Revision 4 October 2012.
Disclaimer: Torchwood belongs to the BBC and is the creation of the masterful Russell T. Davies. Recognisable characters and scenarios belong to the appropriate parties and are borrowed for entertainment purposes only.
Spoilers: Torchwood series 1-3, Doctor Who 'Army of Ghosts', 'Doomsday', 'The Stolen Earth', and 'Journey's End' (potentially others)
Summary: Ianto Jones had made himself into a shadow, hidden in the background, unnoticed. How does a shadow cope with being brought into the light?
Pairings: Jack/Ianto (eventually), Ianto/Lisa (mentioned), Gwen/Rhys, etc (standard canon couplings)
Ex Umbra In Solem (From the Shadow into the Light)
by Gwyddelig
Chapter 2: Day One
"Beginnings are always messy."
- John Galsworthy
He wasn't surprised when his quip about using his eyes was all but ignored, the team pausing long enough to hear the words before out the other ear they went. He was mildly surprised, however, that it had garnered any reaction at all. Usually they wouldn't even bat a lash when he slipped and opened his mouth to say more than 'coffee' or 'yes/no, sir', when he forgot himself and could almost believe he was part of the team. He sometimes wondered if they even knew his name. He was almost certain Owen didn't as the medic called him 'teaboy' if he called him anything at all.
Jack did, though, as he was quite often reminded. For some reason the man seemed to love saying it, as if the sound on his tongue was ambrosial. Ianto himself would be damned to admit that when the American said it, he could almost believe it was. Lust radiated off the Captain like heat from a star. Ianto was sure the man could find a Coke bottle arousing, given the right circumstances.
He blamed the current ones for his train of thought, glancing at the CCTV in time to catch Gwen and the possessed Carys crash together in a frenzied lip-lock. It was no wonder his head was buzzing. 'Sex gas' indeed. It certainly explained why, when Carys went tearing off through the Hub with the Hand-in-a-Jar, he slipped again.
"Need me to do any attacking, sir." He knew he'd smack himself for it later, but he couldn't help the words just then. Not when Jack (though obviously worried for the Hand, desperate to keep it safe) was standing there, half-in the small room that made up their Tourist Office front, exuding that smell - that terribly tantalising scent that made Ianto so hard he wanted to beg Jack to bend him over the counter and make him forget about Lisa, forget about Cybermen and Daleks and all those things that made him wake up screaming at night, forget everything but the ecstasy he knew Jack was capable of giving him.
The crash of the containment jar brought him back from the edge of that fantasy before he forgot himself fully and acted on it, shocking him back to reality as swiftly as a bucket of ice water. Shame, bitter and terrible, raged through him, souring his stomach as he realised just how lost he'd gotten in that smell, in those allegedly 51st century pheromones. Bile crept up in his throat, harsh and acidic, and it was all he could do to keep from bolting through the beaded curtain to heave his guts into the sink.
It was pitiful really, the sight of Jack on the floor, the creepy severed limb in his own goo-coated hands, twitching slightly with some echo of movement, a sick parody of a living appendage. At least the gall had settled; though, if the thing continued to twitch, Ianto felt he might be sick for an all together different reason.
He paid no mind to the two women running past them, out onto the Quay; almost snapping at Gwen when she opened her mouth about the hand and Carys upon her return. It was not his own irritation, he knew, it was Jacks - slipping through his barriers, wrapping itself about his own oscillating emotions, feeding them and feeding off them. Knowing himself, he' was certain that, despite Gwen Cooper's usefulness, he probably would be having to deal with his own irritation at the woman in the near future - good intentioned though she may be.
They'd left him alone rather quickly as things escalated, bolting out of the base with haste that would make the Hounds of Hell think twice about trying to keep up. He wouldn't be needed again, but it was best to use his time wisely - in the event they did return, demanding coffee or files or some other such nonsense that they expected to have magically appear before them.
Once they'd disappeared from the CCTV around the Hub, he made his way down, slipping through the internal monitoring via the unused and probably forgotten corridors that sprawled beneath the bay. Twisting and turning deeper and deeper into the bowels of the Victorian monstrosity, hidden away like the rest of his secrets, like he himself. The door to her prison was safely locked, bolted and he reasoned with himself that it was for her own protection - not to keep her in, but to keep them out.
The monitors showed no change, but he checked anyway, reassuring himself that the machines were doing their job, that the medications were keeping her as free of pain as they safely could without killing her. Some days he wondered if it would be better if she died than to stay as she was, trapped in this place, away from the sun and warmth of the world above, neither awaking nor sleeping, neither living nor dying. He wondered if it was selfish of him to want her to keep on living, to let her keep on suffering while he sought out a cure; but she'd insisted she it was alright, that none of it mattered so long as he was with her, that she held on for him, so that they could be together again. He didn't think he was worth her pain; but she swore he was, fervently, repeatedly, and he believed she meant it. For her sake, he would do everything in his power - to help her, to fix her. As long as she was happy, as long as she had hope, he would keep on.
It didn't stop the doubt from creeping in, the nagging worry in the back of his head, the sense of wrongness that niggled just out of reach of conscious thought. It itched and rankled, but he pushed it aside. Doubt there was, but stronger was his need for her, his desperation to save her. He needed her, didn't think he could go on living if he lost her. It was enough to distract him at times and he'd nearly be found out on a handful of occasions since stealing here way down there, since secreting her into the base.
"I'm sorry," he whispered in expiation, brushing fingers across skin that could no longer feel sensation. It was becoming so difficult, putting on the face they wanted to see, keeping things from falling apart - needing her, wanting him. He wondered just how long he could keep it up. Every lapse, every falter drew eyes to him, attention that he couldn't risk having. Especially since Suzie, damn her and her murderous habits. It had been just days, but it felt like weeks and he hoped an opportunity presented itself before it was too late.
"Ianto?" the comm crackled in his ear, the Captain's smooth voice wrapping around the sounds like silk.
"I'm here, sir," he responded automatically, scurrying from the room with forced dignity. He quickly locked the room, shutting her away once more, before heading back up toward his desk in the Archives.
A gentle harrumph slipped over the line before Jack spoke again. "Would you mind making up a pot before you head out?" The pleading was there in his voice and Ianto imagined if the man were stood before him he'd have his hands pressed together in that silly little mockery of prayer.
He rolled his eyes, inordinately pleased to make the gesture and release from his rigid composure. "Of course, sir. Will that be all?"
"Yep," came the snap-to, rather cheerful reply. "Then get yourself out of here," came the expected order, it seemed the man was always telling him to leave. "You spend far too much time down in those dank tunnels. If I didn't know better, I'd think you lived here."
Panic swept through him like ice and fire. Jack couldn't know, it was just an off-handed comment. It had to be. That didn't stop his heart rate from elevating nor the blood from draining from his face nor the cold fear that coiled in his gut. "Yes, sir," he managed to reply, his voice surprisingly even despite the waves of nausea sweeping over him.
He paused as he ascended the stairs to the main floor, trembling a little and taking a moment to compose himself. He hoped his ears weren't burning as brightly as he believed them to be. An embarrassed flush would only draw further attention.
Making the coffee helped and he took refuge in the meditative task, willing the flush away as he brewed. Ready, he made for the office, setting the blue striped mug next to the blotter without flourish; the perfect butler, unobtrusive and efficient.
"Thanks, Ianto," the older man said with genuine appreciation, smiling that sweet smile - the one Ianto thought he should use more often, the one without any kind of leer or lechery, the one he thought was beautiful and heart-melting.
Mentally shaking the thought aside, he inclined his head demurely. "You're welcome, sir."
"Go home, Ianto," Jack shooed then. "I swear if I didn't tell you to get out of here, you'd never leave. Go home, relax, do something not Torchwood related."
"If you insist, sir," and he could tell the other man was trying very hard to scowl at him despite the smile, mirth - a fresh feeling after the heavy and pervasive sorrow of the last few days - flowing off him in rippling waves, easing the pain a little, letting it sink back. So if his "goodnight" was less than formal, perhaps a little too familiar, he put it down to Jack's emoting and left it at that.