Update: My finger is officially broken. I am also going to be travelling for other medical reasons in the next few weeks, but none of it should impact this story too much. Maybe a delay of a day or two between posting. But I'm managing to type just fine, even though I'm short one very useful finger!
Back to Jack's POV. Rating upped to M, as these two seem to be fixated on only one aspect of their broken relationship.
He pulled shut the door to the dingy little flat carefully, not letting it hit the frame any harder than a soft breeze would push it closed. He really wanted to slam it, to yank on it with such force it would buckle the frame. To then turn around and kick it, kick until the latch broke and the wood hanged from the hinges like a drunken tart off a sailor. A pirate from a gibbet. A limp flag up a pole.
He took a deep breath. He was beyond such anger. Should be beyond it. Wasn't really beyond it. The little fucker didn't know, couldn't know, how his words would burn. How they would burrow and fester, linger and rot. How the very mention of a Dalek would send him into a tailspin of panic, mind reverting to the fear he felt as he faced his doom.
'Exterminate! Exterminate!'. Words he never wanted to hear thrown in his direction ever again. Jones couldn't know the chill that sat over his body when reports from the Battle rolled in, of heartless and emotionless metal monsters deleting at will. Of murderous tin pots; flying, deadly, rampaging iron pepper shakers, with toilet plunger weapons and single-minded determination to kill everything in sight. The absolute scariest thing he'd ever encountered, from anywhere in the Universe, in any time. Jones couldn't possibly know how with even one mention of them his insides would try to shrivel and die, to bury themselves so deep in his body he can't even draw breath into his lungs. He couldn't know, because he - Jack - had never told him. Not told anyone, not in many a long year.
To be compared - hell, it hurt, more than any other vile insult thrown his way, it hurt. He might be a monster, by the very definition Jones used, but by all that was holy, in all the known galaxies, through all of space and time, he was not - inot/i - a fucking mindless killing machine. He wasn't! He cared. He cared so much that to do what he had to left scars too deep to heal. He bled each and every time he sentenced someone - something - to die.
God, he'd really hoped that Jones could be the confidant he never knew he needed. Now, the tenuous trust between them was gone, shattered in one electrical charge and a throw across the floor. He wasn't sure it could ever be fixed. Should ever be fixed. The betrayal ran too deep. Was there any way for them to get beyond this? Probably not if the boy couldn't work past his anger. His hatred, of Jack, and of his actions. Jack's actions? Or his own? He couldn't decide which drove the boy to such rigid fury more.
Oh, but hitting him. It felt so damn good. And it hurt like a son of a bitch. Not the physical act. Inside. His stomach ached and his heart clenched at the idea of hurting his own team members. Even when faced with a gun, threatened with death, he was still reluctant to do anything violent in response. Witness Suzie. He stood there and took the bullet to the head without flinching, never using his own weapon in defence. Same thing with Jones - should have shot him immediately. But no. He couldn't. He wasn't a cold, heartless monster. He wasn't.
He should go. Should leave the kid alone for a few days. Let him stew. Calm down. Grieve. Only he couldn't. No. The risk of Jones doing something stupid and irreversible to himself was too great. If Jones - Ianto - wasn't monitored, he could hurt himself. Possibly kill himself. He needed to be here, as often as the Rift permitted. At least twice a day, maybe more during quiet times.
He had to look beyond the words. He had to accept that Ianto was just lashing out, fighting at the only thing, the only person who bothered to care. But why did he care? Was it guilt? Guilt for not seeing him? Guilt for taking advantage of the delights laid out for him? He was so young, so damaged. Christ, he should have seen it. Why didn't he see it? It was so obvious. The weight loss. The circles under the eyes. The extreme quiet.
Except when he wasn't. The boy knew exactly what he wanted and liked when it came to sex. Not shy. Vocal and involved. Gave as good as he got. Didn't ask, but took. Took and returned the favour, tenfold. Best fuck of his life. Which was saying something. Even his long ago wife, his sweet Estelle, Lucia, that man from the 20's he tried hard not to think about because of what happened - all of them paled in comparison. Hell, even his psychotic ex from the Time Agency couldn't match up. And he'd had five fucking years over the same two weeks to teach that man new tricks. Still couldn't hold a candle to Jones.
But it was more than the sex. Should be more. Ianto was just so right. They fit together, like interlocking pieces of the same puzzle. Yin and yang. Balance and counter-balance. Ianto tempered him, kept him grounded in the reality of the 21st century. The Doctor could be here any day. Should be here any day. He was prone to flights of fancy at the heady thought of finding him, of being fixed, of travelling once more. Ianto kept him in the here and now, a functioning leader of Torchwood. Not an addle-pated airhead dreaming of better things. Fuck, he ineeded/i Ianto. Needed him as more than a fine arse and cute suit. Wanted him as more.
Just wanted him, period.
Fuck.