The response to this fic continues to amaze me. Thank you so much. I hope I continue to do justice to your expectations.
Ianto moved out of the embrace, rubbing his eyes with his fists, as a tired child does. He drew the fists away and looked at them with curiosity, as if he couldn't work out why they were wet. Spread the hands out, held them up before his eyes. Examining, again like a child, when they first discover that those things at the end of their arms actually belong to them. The hands dropped slowly to his lap, flinching away from the damp patches on his knees.
Too-bright eyes rose to meet Jack's gaze for perhaps the first time that night, flicking away as if the contact hurt.
"You've got dirt in your hair," Ianto said softly. Neutral tone. If not for what had gone before, Jack would have been grateful for it. He hated sympathy. Hated feeling weak.
Ianto leaned forward and ran a single finger through Jack's hair. Jack fought the urge to shrink away from the touch. The finger came away dulled by a patina of dust. "See? Just near the scalp."
Jack shuddered. He'd cleaned up before Torchwood froze him. The soil must have gotten into his pores, for God's sake. Where else, he wondered? Was it in his lungs, his gut? Felt that way.
Jack summoned the shreds of his dignity. "I was buried," he said coolly. "Without even the dubious comfort of a coffin, I might add. There was dirt." He tried to suppress the tremor than ran through him, but he couldn't. Tried to pretend it was a shrug. "So I got dirty."
Ianto's hand dropped to Jack's jaw-line, his thumb tracing the bone beneath, collecting the beads of sweat. The lack of warmth in his eyes made a mockery of what should have been a caress. But Jack couldn't move away from him, any more than he could climb down that ladder. Because it was just possible Ianto was trying to help, however little it felt like that. If Ianto was reaching through whatever was holding him frozen, and Jack pulled away from him now…then he'd leave.
This was why love was a mistake. When you love someone, you aren't enough for yourself anymore. Shouldn't have let it happen. Too late now.
Because Jack didn't want Ianto to leave. Couldn't bear it if he left. Couldn't tell him that, though. He might leave anyway. And that would just add rejection to humiliation. Quite a list.
Was this, Jack wondered, how he'd made Ianto feel? In the early days, in the bunker, just like this but so different, when the sweat on his body wasn't from fear. When he'd left, with the excuse that he didn't need to sleep, and there was no point staying just to watch Ianto sleep, was there? And it was just an excuse, because sometimes he hadn't even waited until Ianto was asleep. Trying to escape from something that threatened to become too strong. But if he'd made Ianto feel this way, Jack acknowledged now that deserved whatever happened tonight. And he hoped it wasn't too late to fix it.
Ianto drew his hand back for further examination, then rubbed the thumb and forefinger together, merging the dust and sweat. His nose wrinkled fastidiously at the resulting smear of mud, and he wiped his fingers carefully on his trousers. "I'll never wear them again, anyway," he murmured.
It occurred to Jack that maybe those damp patches on the knees of Ianto's trousers weren't water. He'd been scrubbing the floors. There was blood on the floors. Tosh's blood.
It occurred to Jack that he should have offered to clean the autopsy bay himself. He'd been here, staring at his bunker, when he could have been there. Been there for Ianto.
It occurred to Jack that he was a selfish prick.
Tears gathered in his eyes again. Not for himself, this time, but maybe it was too late to matter. Maybe it was too late to ask for forgiveness. From Ianto. From Grey. Or from Tosh. Or Owen. Or Suzie. Or….so many. Too many. Too late.
Except that Ianto was still here. If he could just get the words out. But they wouldn't form in his mind, let alone on his tongue. If he asked for forgiveness, he had to admit he'd been wrong. That he was wrong.
The Doctor told him that. The Doctor was always right. Wasn't he?
Silence stretched between them. A strangely timeless silence. It might have been seconds since they'd last spoken, or it might have been hours. Or days. No way of telling in the Hub.
Ianto looked at the ladder, looked curiously back at Jack. Moving only his head, with sharp little jerks that reminded Jack of Myfanwy, except so much more fragile.
"You're afraid to go down there," Ianto said, tilting his head to the side.
Jack swallowed against the lump in his throat that couldn't be a clod of soil. Did Ianto still believe Jack didn't feel fear? Had he really kept himself hidden that well?
Given how much trouble he was having answering the question, probably. Definitely.
"Aren't you?" Ianto prompted.
Jack nodded, as much against his will as if someone had their hand behind his head, forcing it forwards.
"Jack?"
"YES."
"The first step in dealing with a phobia is to admit it," Ianto announced clinically. He pushed himself stiffly away from the desk and stopped close enough that Jack could feel warm breath fanning his cheek.
"You can't stay here then," Ianto said briskly. "Meet me at the lift." He moved back towards the bunker.
Jack gaped at his retreating back. Ianto climbed down the ladder, pausing just before his head disappeared into the space beneath.
"I have to turn the lights off," Ianto told him, in the voice of a parent explaining why ice cream wasn't lunch food. Exaggerated patience. Explaining the obvious.
The lights in the bunker flickered off in quick succession, plunging the space below into darkness. Jack fought the urge to move into the pool of light cast by the desk lamp and watched the ladder until Ianto's head emerged again.
"Are you still here?" Ianto asked, impatience in every line of his body as he climbed the rest of the way out. He paused at the desk, his hand on the lamp switch, looking at Jack with all the compassion of Owen during a dissection. Owen. Twice dead. More than dead. No need to clean up after Owen. He wouldn't even need a space in the morgue.
"You don't want me to do this while you're still here," Ianto said, a glimmer of warmth sneaking into his tone. "The lift has its own lighting. Go on, Jack."
Jack turned for the door, and froze again. This was all wrong. He didn't follow orders from Ianto.
"Unless," Ianto paused, sounding uncertain, beginning to babble. "Unless, of course, you want to be alone. Do you? I could just leave the lights on and go. Is that what you want?"
Something gave Jack a mental slap. Possibly a wiser version of himself. "No," he answered, just a shade too quickly for his own dignity. "No, Ianto, that's not what I want."
Ianto sighed. "What do you want, Jack?"
He's not giving me orders, Jack told himself firmly. He's giving me what I need. Giving, like he always does. Have I ever given anything back?
"I want," he paused, carefully erasing any note of pleading from his tone. "I want to come home with you."
There was movement at corners of Ianto's mouth, a twitch that might have grown into a smile but had forgotten how. "Meet me at the lift," he repeated.
This time Jack went.
Poor broken boys. I am being mean to them. Not as mean as RTD, though. And at least I intend to glue them back together at the end. Might be some pieces missing though.