WARNING: This IS NOT the 'nice' ending. If you prefer hopeful endings, pass this one over and go to the next one. You have been warned.
Yup, this is Naomi's ending. I don't think it's quite sadistic enough for her, but hey, hopefully she'll like it. There's a bit more psycological trauma in this section (she didn't think there was enough in the first.. apparently mind fucking is the best part of torture, like Adam screwwing with my baby in 'Adam' - grrrr)
Disclaimer: I own nothing, it's all for Russel T. Davies
He stared in horror at the scene on the wall on the other side of the large room to him. He silently prayed that it was a painting, but knew, deep down, that it was a piece of live art. At least, he really hoped it was live art.
Hanging from the wall, bathed in sunlight that was streaming down from a grate in the ceiling above, was Ianto. He was strung up by his arms, his chin resting on his motionless chest, his entire body still. The entire scene was grimly beautiful, the light casting an eerie glow to the man's pale skin, catching the muscular frame in a way that was breath-takingly beautiful, yet completely heart breaking. It was all very reminiscent of the biblical story, right down to the implement lodged in the man's left side. Like the spear that supposedly killed Jesus… Jack's heart was refusing to believe what his eyes and mind were telling him.
He swallowed hard against the tears that were threatening to blind him and gingerly got to his feet, collecting his pistol and forcing himself across the room. As he approached, he noticed the trails of blood that ran over Ianto's skin; from his wrists, down his arms, around his neck… the marks continued across his chest, almost obscuring a wound there. Jack's curiosity out weighed his revulsion and he continued to step closer.
He glanced at Ianto face, the peaceful expression making his heart shatter into pieces. He shook his head and gritted his teeth before looking closer at the once familiar chest, finding him self biting back the urge to throw up. His mind railed against what he was seeing, and it was all he could do to stop himself from turning and running away.
He made himself look back at the words carved deep into Ianto's skin, taking them in, one by one, until he couldn't fail to understand what they meant:
This is only the beginning
He knew, right then, who had done this, and the yawning hold in his chest was ripped apart just a little further as he realised that it was his fault. John Hart had done this because of him. He read the sentence again before gently reaching up and touching the sore, broken flesh of Ianto's neck, vainly trying to detect a pulse.
His fingertips ghosted over the skin gently, not even bothering to press against the blood vessel to feel for a heart beat. The cold, marble-like skin was enough to tell him he was too late.
It was then that the crying took over, the painful tears burning his cheeks and eyes as he howled in grief, dropping to the floor and clutching his sides tightly to stop the pain, knowing that nothing he could do would ease the hurting. He just knelt on the floor and tried to catch his breath between the sobs that wracked his body, but the pain was stopping his lungs from moving. He was huddled like that for what seemed like hours, blinking through the tears that refused to stop at the floor covered in Ianto's blood, half congealed with time, its metallic scent making the back of his tongue throb unpleasantly.
When he eventually managed to regain control of his muscles, he took deep, steadying breaths until he could stand up, his eyes empty of tears and his face devoid of emotion. His stance had something wrong about it, a stiffness and an awkwardness that had never before been seen in Captain Jack Harkness.
With the same unusual manner, Jack looked around the barren room, squinting through the murky lighting and trying to make sense of the shadowy depths. There was no way he could retrieve the body without having something to stand on, and whatever John had used had already been removed. He soon found a sturdy metal table covered in weapons and walked over, sweeping it clean with his arm and dragging it over to the body.
He pushed it underneath Ianto, lifting his feet, sickeningly, off the blades and needles that they'd been speared on, resting them on the table's surface. He fought back another wave of grief when he drew his hands away from the young man's ankles and found his palms covered in thick, cold blood.
Jack next move was to gently fasten the ruined shirt over the mutilated skin, to hide the horrific message, with a few buttons before setting to work on the manacles holding Ianto's wrists up. He managed to pick the locks open, but when it came to the barbed wire, he had to climb form the table and inspect the tools he'd pushed to the floor. He soon found a pair of wire cutters, obviously used for the wires lodged in the young man's arm, and returned to cutting the rest of the barbed wire from Ianto's wrist.
He performed the operation on the second wrist, taking a little less time, before awkwardly catching the body before it fell backwards, the dead weight slumping against him, so similar to all those nights they'd spent together, yet so unbelievably wrong.
Jack slowly manoeuvred Ianto into a lying position, arms peacefully at his sides, thankful that rigor mortis hadn't yet set into the young man's limbs. He slipped off the table and stood next to it, looking numbly at the colourless face, stark against the smooth metal surface.
He pulled his mobile from his pocket and pressed the speed dial, instantly connected to Tosh back at the hub. He knew she'd already be in.
"Tosh, it's Jack. I've found Ianto." His voice choked slightly in his throat, a little hoarse from denial as he spoke. Then he simply flicked the phone closed and severed the call. His team would be there in no longer than half an hour. He only had half an hour more with Ianto. Only half an hour more of complete privacy, of no-questions-asked mourning.
He gently brushed Ianto's hair from his forehead and ran his fingers over the cold skin of his cheek, tracing his lips reluctantly, staring at the closed eyelids. With a stab of pain, he realised he'd never see those eyes again, those that were so alive with emotion; with humour and sarcasm and intelligence. He'd never be able to lose himself in them again.
With a deep breath, Jack set to work on removing all the tools that John had used. Slowly, one by one, he pulled the wires form the skin, disentangled the barbs from his wrist and cut the cheese wires from around his arms and neck. Next, he pulled the screwdriver carefully from his shoulder and gingerly twisted the corkscrew free from his side. Last of all, he pulled each of the metal throwing stars from the once strong legs, dropping them neatly onto the pile of utensils that he'd extracted.
He took one last look at the pale, broken body of Ianto Jones before letting his grief collapse him in on himself, the pain forcing his body down on its knees as he struggled to take another breath.
