((I am so sorry that it took so long.=.= Things have been hectic. But in any case, I promise that I'll be finishing this within the next few weeks. Until then, you all rock and I'm so grateful for your reads, your favs, and your comments. Thank you so much and be safe during this holiday.))

Jack Harkness feared silence more than anything. The darkness, he could use, he'd learned how to mold it to his uses; it became a weapon. But silence terrified him.

While he was alive, he could always find something to listen to—the bicker and banter of his team, the hiss and groans of the overhead pipes in his office. Anything.

The only thing that was completely silent was death. It was the silence that clung to Jack, long after the first gasping breath had invaded his lungs and the warmth had returned to his fingers and toes. It haunted his thoughts and chased away sleep. He kept himself busy, kept himself smiling, because it was the only way to keep the others around, to ward away that dreadful silence.

And now it had taken Ianto.

"Hey now," Jack rasped, through chapped lips that still tasted of him. "No sleeping on the job, I'm not paying you to take naps, you know?" He didn't look up from his calculations, couldn't face it yet. Ianto's hand rested, cold and still, on Jack's thigh. Jack's jaw clenched as though he could physically bar the truth from entering and taking hold.

Instead he focused on the task at hand—getting his team's attention. He groaned and erased his last set of his calculations, squinting against the flickering light of the torch that Ianto had kept in his pocket. (Because Ianto Jones was nothing if not prepared.) "Just give me a second, Ianto…" he frowned thoughtfully. "If I adjust the last two lines and compensate here…" He looked back to his wrist and gave the device a tweak. After a breathless moment, the thing whirred to life, beeping and singing into the darkness.

"I did it!" Jack rejoiced, euphoria pounded hot in his veins. He grabbed Ianto's hand, because it was all going to be all right, because there was no other way it could go. "I told you that I was brilliant. Now all they have to do is track the signal and dig us out. We'll get you patched up in no time."

But there was no answer. Jack swallowed heavily and finally looked away from his work. Ianto had gone so pale. His dark eyelashes lay splayed out against bloodless cheeks. Splotches of red marred his skin looking as profane as blood in snow. He was still, so terribly still. Jack swallowed again.

He'd failed.

He'd sworn that his time as the head of Torchwood would not be spent wading through the blood of his own team. He thought that he'd learned better, thought that he was smart enough not to relive the same mistakes that had plagued his predecessors. But the morgues were filling up faster than he'd wanted. As far as his team went, Ianto would be the second. The second life he'd overlooked, the second one he'd thrown away, the second one he should have prevented. The ghost of Ianto's lips against his taunted him.

"Come on, Ianto," Jack pleaded, sliding over so that he could gingerly collect the boy into his arms. Ianto's face was still lax, all of the crinkles smoothed away. The transformation was not lost on Jack, who pressed a soft kiss to Ianto's temple. Strange. He'd commented on Ianto's age so many times, but it was only then, cradling his limp body in the wreckage of an old building, that it truly sunk in. Despite all his wit, all his detached mannerisms, all of his cold efficiency, Ianto Jones was a child.

A child that was currently dying in the arms of his leader. Jack crouched over him, his hands tightening, fisting the torn and gritty fabric. Time was a strange animal, he had no way of telling whether it had been minutes or hours since he'd managed to send out his distress signal. Minutes would be too short to have rounded up a rescue effort, hours would be too long to save both of them. Jack pressed a hand to Ianto's chest, timing each shallow breath. Wouldn't be long at this rate.

"I'm sorry I got you into this," Jack whispered. "Seems like nothing can go right between us. Hell, we've been fighting each other from the beginning, huh?" He laughed and brushed the matted hair from the too-cold forehead. "Do me one favor, Jones…" Jack paused, his lips settling into a hard line. "Repay me for letting you into Torchwood, Jones. Let's start over, let me be the kind of man that deserves your trust, your loyalty."

His breathing echoed raggedly as he touched his forehead to Ianto's. "Let's start over, Jones." He's bargaining now, he knew it. (Not that it mattered. Nothing mattered in this dank wreckage.) "Our team is coming, Ianto. Don't you dare die before we have a chance to fix everything."

His words fade into the darkness. Above him, the first vibrations sent trembles through the decimated structure. It was the first signs of rescue, of life, of the noisy world above. But, inside their cage of crumpled cement and tangled metal, there was only silence.

And Jack Harkness was drowning in it.