11

Ianto had now moved on to the Arctic Monkeys, and was beginning to wonder if he should have busted into his nameless collection of dance music. Mind you, he didn't listen to it at home, it had just been blasted at him in a number of clubs and the occasional rave, and while it all sounded sort of the same to him, it had been branded into his brain. He'd spent too much time in clubs. (Like he was a raver! He'd been to one as a teen, and that turned into a complete and unmitigated disaster. Shana, the beautiful girl he'd been trying to impress, sort of conned him into trying Ecstasy, and he did, and to make a long and strangely complex story short, he truly realized he was bisexual when he ended up making out with her twin brother, Shane. Well, he was both prettier and a better dancer, so he could make that argument in his favor. Poor Shana had not realized until that moment that her date was bi or that her brother was gay. Surprise! That was one of the most awkward drives home of his entire life. Shane turned out to be a real nice bloke though, a fun date until he went away to drama school. He had no idea if Shana ever forgave him or not.)

He was fading. The positive side of this was Harold and his crew couldn't inflict too much pain on him anymore, save for these occasional deep, stabbing pains somewhere deep inside his skull. It was like migraines released in three second bursts, and while he was glad they didn't last long, the fact that they weren't as crippling as they probably should have been let him know how far gone he was. That, and the fact that he knew what they were thinking more than ever.

He wasn't really surprised when Harold showed up again, standing in the aisle and scowling down at him like he was a pissed off usher. "This is juvenile."

"I wouldn't expect a life form that is basically a germ to even know what that means."

"We weren't germs. Don't be insulting."

"I'm juvenile, remember? That's what juvenile people do." He wished he had a bag of popcorn, and low and behold, he did. He was now holding one in his lap. So he looked up at the screen and tried to remember the rave, tried to picture it like a movie scene. But all that came up on the screen was blurry colored lights. The problem with Ecstasy – while it did have a bit of a fun aspect to it – was it totally fucked with your memories. All his memories were was just flashing lights, a throbbing beat, and the feeling of Shane's sweaty, warm skin pressed against his. These didn't translate too well to a movie screen.

"You are insufferable. Or are you just a sore loser?"

"We're not going to lose. What is it with you aliens having to rub Jack's face in it? If you just kept your egos and big mouths in check, you could take over and there'd be a chance he'd never know until it was too late. But oh no, you have to adhere to the Bond villain problem of running off your mouths prematurely and spoiling your own plans. For wannabe evil alien overlords, you really are a bunch of twats." He crunched some popcorn, wishing he had a good ale to drink. Then he did, and he was pleased.

Harold wasn't pleased, but then he didn't expect him to be. The only weapon he had against them now was words, and he intended to use them. His glower was deep and menacing, but Ianto ignored it, choosing to focus on what was going on in the true outside world. He saw a Cardiff street, but while it looked familiar, he couldn't immediately pinpoint which one. Bloody gentrification.

Suddenly Harold was standing in front of him, blocking his view. "You don't even have to know when the end comes, boy. Memory is its own prison."

Before he could even make sense of that, Ianto felt a shift -

- and tried to remember why he was in the office. What was he doing?

He saw the glossy pile of tourism brochures, and picked them up, stuffing them in the rack in general order. Yes, the Welsh tourism office was just a Torchwood front, but it was good to occasionally change things, so no one got too suspicious. There were occasionally new colorful covers to the same damn brochures, so whoever was paid to manufacture these things could earn their paycheck without getting out of bed. He swiveled the rack to make sure they looked real and not like a prop, and decided they did. Great. Now, what else did he have to do that he was putting off?

"Go home, Ianto," Jack said wearily. He'd known he was there watching for the past thirty seconds or so, but he was hoping if he ignored him he'd take the hint and go away.

He stiffened slightly, but returned behind the desk, calling up a menu on the computer. He should really change the password. He liked to every couple of weeks, but it was good to not adhere to a rigid schedule. "I have things to do, Jack."

"Nothing that can't wait. Everyone else has gone home; I suggest you do too."

"No." Let's see, what hadn't he used? 220Cadmium7843#x05* sounded good. Sure, using words was risky, but even hackers generally stayed away from the Periodic table.

"You were almost killed," Jack said, not unkindly, but with an edge to it, enough to still Ianto's fingers on the keyboard. "You need some time to process that. Denial doesn't work."

"You think this is the first time I've almost died? I've worked with Torchwood for years," he replied, typing again. As soon as he noticed his hands were starting to shake, he started the shut down sequence for the computer.

"So have I."

"So where were you during Canary Wharf?" he snapped, and it came out much harsher than he wanted. No help for it now.

"I was here, in Cardiff. The Rift really acted up that day. The dimensional rift in London made the one here vibrate like a guitar string. You've looked extensively through the archives; I'm sure you've seen some of the reports." He let out a weary sigh as he rubbed his eyes. "None of this had anything to do with human cannibals, though. Go home, get some rest, recharge. It's back to business as usual tomorrow, I'm sure."

"I have work to do. I don't need to go home." He got up and briskly walked passed Jack, into the cool, dark corridor leading down to the Hub. He heard Jack following him, but he didn't say anything, which just irritated him all the more.

Ianto felt like he was about to explode out of his own skin. He wasn't sure why he was so upset really. So what if he was almost bled to death and then eaten by Human cannibals? Was it any worse than almost being killed by Cybermen or any other goddamn thing? It was all death, and frankly, if Weevils killed him, they'd probably eat a bit of him too, so it was all a variety of degrees he supposed. And if he was buried, he'd feed generations of insects, eventually be shat out by worms. You always ended up someone's meal, one way or another.

Once inside the Hub, as Ianto looked for something to clean up (damn it, he'd already cleaned up! Everyone was usually such slobs, but they hadn't been here today, so there was no one to make a mess save for Jack ... and he hadn't, which was very pissy of him ...) Jack said, "You sustained a head injury. Any doctor would strap you down to a bed and make you stay there."

There was an obvious double entendre there, but you know what? He wasn't in the bloody mood for it. "I don't have a concussion, I just have a cut. Apparently my skull is as thick as everyone always told me it was in school." Oh good, Toshiko had left some papers and rice paper sweet wrappers at her station. He'd missed those before.

"I've never seen someone fidget themselves into a tizzy before. It'd be fascinating if it wasn't so worrisome."

"Fuck off!" It was out of Ianto's mouth before he could pull it back. Oh shit. Had he just told his boss to fuck off? Facing away from Jack, he closed his eyes and wondered why he couldn't do anything right. Everything he touched just turned to shit. He was the anti-Midas.

Jack was quiet for a very long time, so long that Ianto was sure he was trying to decide on the best way to fire him, which had probably been stewing since the whole Lisa incident anyways. He knew he'd been on thin ice; now he could feel it cracking beneath his feet, and he was afraid to face Jack. No, he wasn't sure he could live in the "normal" world after Torchwood, but maybe it would be for the best. Maybe they could Retcon him to his university days, and he could be made to believe he had a case of amnesia. Maybe he would at least let him suggest that.

Finally Jack went up the stairs, and he said, without looking back, "My office." His voice was clipped and flat.

As soon as he was in his office, Ianto sighed and let his shoulders sag. So this was it. In a strange way, it was a relief. He was never any good at this stuff, was he? He never quite fit in. He was a shitty butler anyways.

He headed up the stairs feeling like he was ascending to a gallows, and he tugged at his tie, loosening it, getting ready to toss it in the trash on his way out. Maybe he should throw it on Owen's desk; he looked like he could use a tie.

When he went in, he found Jack sitting behind his desk, opening a bottle and pouring dark liquid into two glasses. "I actually helped out in Torchwood Glasgow on one or two cases, and the leader there at the time, Marty, gave me this. I figured now is the time to try it out."

"Since when do you drink alcohol?"

He shrugged a single shoulder as he put the bottle down. "I do, now and again. Not often. I figure after all that's happened, we could both use a drink."

So he was trying to be kind. A drink, a "You're fired mate", and then the Retcon he surely dropped in Ianto's glass would kick in. Fine. It was probably nice of Jack to not be mean about this. Ianto dropped into the chair in front of Jack's desk, and grabbed the glass obviously meant for him. The scent of aged Scotch whisky burned his nostrils, and he blinked back nascent tears before holding his breath and swigging it down in a single gulp.

There was a single second when he thought perhaps he overreacted, as the liquid went down his throat warm and smooth. Then, just as he was beginning to think it was remarkably mild, it kicked like an angry mule, and it seemed to take his breath away. Jack was staring at him across the desk, looking mildly nonplussed. "I never pegged you for a whisky man, Ianto."

Heat rose to his face, as it always did when he drank a little too much, but he could breathe now, so he said, "I'm not."

"So why'd you shotgun it?"

Shotgun it? What a quaint American term. "I wanted the Retcon to hit me all at once."

Jack blinked once, true confusion now coloring his features. "Retcon? There wasn't any Retcon in it. Why would there be?"

Oh wow, what was the alcohol content of this stuff? It had only taken up a fourth of the glass – Jack had maybe poured them an inch or two of the stuff – but he could feel the warmth spreading throughout his body like he'd just had his second pint of the evening, and the knot in his shoulders started uncoiling. "Aren't you firing me?"

"What?" He chuckled out of surprise more than anything else. "No. I've been told off so much in my life I sometimes have to remember what's an insult and what isn't. I thought you needed to relax before you exploded." Jack sipped his whisky, and afterward said, "That's brisk. How are you still conscious?"

"I was wondering that myself."

"It's that thick skull of yours again," he joked.

Ianto supposed he should laugh or smile, acknowledge his continuation of his earlier remark, but he couldn't do it. He felt loose limbed and at loose ends; even his anger had fled, leaving nothing but exhaustion in its wake. He no longer felt like pretending around him. "What are you, Jack?"

"Pardon?"

"We know you seem Human, you're mostly Human, but you're not completely Human. No one says it, but I just have to know. Where are you from?"

"Earth."

"You're lying."

Jack stared at him for a moment, his blue eyes locked on his, but Ianto didn't look away. He had enough alcohol in him not to be afraid, to not care if he offended him or not. "Okay, yes. I'm from a colony world. It doesn't exist yet."

He also had enough alcohol in him that everything seemed slightly unreal. It probably helped that his stomach was completely empty, as the thought of eating made him feel like retching. "I see. What's it called?"

Jack shook his head. "It won't exist for a millennium. You don't even have a name for the system yet; it's just a number."

"So tell me. You can make something up and I won't know."

He seemed to consider that a moment, a muscle in his jaw briefly flexing before he said, "It's called Colios Three."

"No, you just pulled that out of your arse."

His face broke open in a broad grin. "How do you know?"

"You don't wanna tell me. You're just giving me something so I'll let it drop."

Jack continued grinning at him in an unsettling manner. "Look at you, going all Psych 101 on me. Is this the real you, Ianto Jones?"

"I'm too tired to play the game anymore," he admitted, and reached across the desk, grabbed Jack's glass, and gulped back the whisky he didn't drink. This was smoother going down, perhaps because the previous alcohol cushioned the blow.

Jack capped the bottle, and put it back in his desk drawer. "Enough for you. I think this is two hundred and eighty proof."

"I'm a Welshman. I've had worse." As if to undercut this sentiment, he had a sudden coughing fit. It felt like something was tickling the back of his throat – perhaps the whisky trying to come back up. But he held it back down.

"You did good," Jack said, and he wasn't immediately sure what he was referring to. Drinking the whisky and holding it down? Cleaning the office? At the village? On his first "away mission" ? (As Owen called it – actually, that was the least profane thing Owen called it)

"Yeah, I did fucking wonderful. I was almost somebody's dinner. What a hero I am."

"Everyone was almost someone's dinner. You were expecting aliens, not people acting like animals."

"You were." He fixed him with a hard stare.

Jack shook his head. "I expected nothing, that way my mind was open to more possibilities."

"Uh huh. You've encountered a lot of people who have been bloody fucking miserable to other people, haven't you? It pissed you off, but it didn't surprise you."

He looked briefly serious, and almost infinitely sad. "Live as long as I have, you encounter it a lot."

He almost asked Jack how old he was, but stopped himself, as that was another conversational dead end. He'd say "old enough to be legal", make a joke of it, or say "36", like his file had said for, oh, was it ten years now? More? Jack was so much older than he said, but he'd never admit it, nor say how he managed to look roughly the same throughout the years. (Again, Ianto expected a joke answer: plastic surgery, Botox, bee's urine, the same airbrushers who work on Tom Cruise.) Instead, he went with a question that troubled him more. "Why bother?"

"What?"

"Saving Humans. We don't deserve it. Let us rot. If we're gonna act like that, we don't deserve saving."

Jack seemed surprised by that. "You can't let a minority of you decided the fate of the entire race. You're capable of much better things. You will deserve your place."

"See? Right there, you're talking like you're not one of us."

"In a way I'm not. But I am, or at least I was."

More double speak, more questions he'd never answer. Ianto shook his head, sick of it all. "I quit."

"Oh, come now, it's not like you to give up so easily. Especially now. I like this feisty Ianto; it's a real turn on."

He stood up, somewhat unsteadily, and said, "No, you're not getting it. I quit. No more Torchwood."

Jack looked genuinely shocked. "You don't mean that."

"I'm not made for it, am I? I'm a – I'm a fucking coward, Jack. I don't want to die, but I especially don't want to die for nothing. I don't wanna die because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. If I have to die, I want it to have meaning, I want it to be while stopping ... something, saving someone, not hanging upside down on a meat hook. I'm useless, totally fucking useless." He started towards the door – why the room had decided to tilt now he had no idea, but it figured really – and Jack bolted up from his desk and stepped in front of him, blocking his way.

"It's normal to be afraid."

"Yeah, I know, so why weren't you?" He could feel his mood swinging, but he didn't care. Anger felt like more solid ground than self-pity; it felt hot and strong, made the room stop shimmering at the edges. "Do you feel anything? Do you have any goddamn feelings at all? Or do they not do that where you come from?"

Jack seemed unmoved by this, although something in his eyes hardened a little. "I think you need to sit down and calm down before you say something you regret."

"No, I need to get out of here. Get outta my way."

"No. Sit down."

Ianto honestly didn't know he was going to hit Jack until he did, a loose right connecting with his jaw in a manner that was heavy, shocking, and immensely satisfying. Jack hadn't expected it, and felt back against the door, surprise warring with -

- hey, was he laughing?

He was chuckling even as he wiped the corner of his mouth and saw the blood on the back of his hand. "I shoulda seen that coming," he admitted.

Jack's laughter infuriated him. He bunched up his fists and suddenly felt a black wave of rage wash over him. "See this, you motherfucking asshole!" He charged him, swinging wildly.

"Hey!" Jack ducked the hit and then grabbed Ianto's arm, stepping under it and swinging Ianto round, throwing him across the room, although Ianto managed to somehow stay on his feet. Perhaps if he didn't have the miracle of drunkenness, he wouldn't have. "You don't want to fight me."

"Stop telling me what I want!" he shouted, his fists clenched so tight he thought he might be breaking his fingers. "How arrogant are you? Why are you trying to save us when you'll never be able to save yourself?!"

Ianto had no idea where that had come from or what it even meant, but Jack look stung, his eyes bright and hollow with sudden, unexpected pain. It made Jack look honestly Human – an actual feeling, an actual reaction that wasn't connected to anger or false good cheer, the only two moods Jack usually bothered to show. It threw Ianto off because he hadn't expected it, and his anger just sort of floundered.

"What do you mean by that?" Jack finally asked, his poker face reasserting itself, but his eyes still looking wounded.

Yeah, he was wondering the same thing. But eventually his mind coughed up a reason. "You're trying so hard to save somebody, to save us ... you want someone to save you, don't you? That Doctor you keep waiting for maybe. But if he hasn't shown by now, why do you think he's ever going to show?"

"He will. He always does," he replied almost defensively, and then, after a moment, he exhaled heavily. "You don't miss anything, do you?"

"Men sneaking up on me with ax handles."

He smirked weakly, a sign that perhaps all was forgiven. "We all fall for that one now and again. You aren't in Torchwood until you've been clubbed senseless at least once." Jack wiped more blood from the corner of his mouth ... but his lip wasn't split anymore. How did that work?

"Then I should have a medal by now," Ianto pointed out, and sighed, sagging against the wall as the death of his anger left him feeling boneless. "Are you gonna let me go?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I need you here."

"To make coffee?"

"Well, of course." Jack then gave him one of his big grins – number four, the "I'm kidding, but only I think the joke's funny" smile – and said, "If only you used that brain of yours for good, you could be devastating."

Was he being insulted? "Meaning what?"

"Meaning I can't figure out why you constantly take the path of least resistance. You're incredibly perceptive, Ianto, a lot more than most people. You find the little threads that unravel an entire skein – when you want to, of course. You'd make a hell of a detective. You know more about me than anyone else, don't you?"

"I doubt it. Unless the others don't know you don't like hazelnut coffee."

"Not what I mean. And you know that."

He stared at him for a moment, unable to interpret the look Jack was giving him and not really interested either. He wanted to go lay down now; maybe the room would stop spinning then. Ultimately he sighed, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "I know this is useless. I know the others think I'm a joke, and rightly so. If you want to keep me on as a tea boy, fine, but don't pretend I'm useful. Don't insult me like that."

Ianto had turned for the door, but suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder, and Jack turned him around to face him. How'd he get across the room that fast? Or was he just moving slow? In retrospect, Ianto realized he was having to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. Two hundred and eighty proof? More like three hundred and eighty proof. Never had so little liquor fucked him up so badly. "Nobody's as hard on you as you are," Jack told him. "Why are you beating yourself up?"

"Why not?" Seemed like a good enough answer.

The way Jack frowned at him, he didn't accept that. "I think you need to forgive yourself."

"For what?"

"I don't know. You tell me."

He stared at Jack, wondering what he could tell him that would make him happy – the truth was out of the question, mainly because he didn't want to look at it himself. He tried to squirm away from Jack, but it didn't quite work – he still had a firm grip on his arm. "Just let me go, okay?"

"Give me an answer."

He frowned at him. "Do you want me to punch you again?"

Jack gave him a slightly evil grin – number 7 – his eyes sparkling like ice on the water. "Take your best shot."

Was he taunting him? His anger flared, a weak spark, and he considered breaking his nose. He'd played rugby long enough to know he could headbutt anyone to their knees. He grabbed Jack by the collar of his shirt and considered it, wondering how satisfying the crunch of bone would be if he just smashed his head into the bridge of his nose, but then he caught himself off guard once again. No, this time he didn't punch him – he kissed him.

Jack seemed surprised, but only for a moment. Ianto kissed him desperately and he responded in kind. It suddenly occurred to Ianto that he wanted so badly to be touched that it had been one of his worst fears when he thought he was going to die. He'd never be touched by anyone again, never be kissed, and it had been so long. God, he was so lonely; he was so tired of being alone with himself and all his ghosts.

He ran a hand through Jack's hair and let his fingers tangle it, yanked at his hair as he bit his lower lip, and Jack pulled away. "Whoa, big guy, a little rough -" he said, as he struggled to break away from him.

He wanted Jack to hurt him. He deserved it; he deserved worse. "I couldn't save her," he said, and suddenly it was like a dam burst. He thought he'd said it, but it was a sob, and the tears seemed to be coming out regardless of how he tried to hold them back. Every sob was like a punch from inside his gut, and his heart contracted and seized as he thought of her: Lisa. Oh god, why wasn't he smart enough, brave enough, good enough to save her? What did he do wrong? If he was smarter, braver, stronger, maybe she'd still be here.

He tried to turn away, but Jack grabbed him and held him, and he buried his face in the side of his neck. "Okay," Jack said softly, stroking his hair. "It's okay."

But it wasn't okay, and it wasn't ever going to be okay. The best thing in his miserable life, and he failed her when she needed him most. There was no forgiveness for that.

He would hate himself for the rest of his life.

There was a serious sense of disconnect for Ianto. He remembered feeling miserable, like he'd cried for years, but he found himself waking up somewhere, his head throbbing like an open wound, unable to breathe through his nose, his mouth feeling and tasting like someone had decided to wash their dirty sweat socks in it. What the hell had happened?

He tried to remember, snuggling into the warmth of his covers and trying to ignore the pain, when it suddenly dawned on him that it wasn't his bed. The pillow smelled very much like Jack.

His eyes shot open, and he moved a bit more quickly than his sickly head would have liked. But he was in Jack's bed, the one he kept in Torchwood, although he quickly ascertained he was alone – a bit of a relief there – and he was only partially undressed: his tie, jacket, and shoes were missing, but he still had everything else. Good. Didn't screw the boss. Although that certainly could only help your career, it still didn't seem like a monumentally good idea, especially when that boss was Jack Harkness. The line for who hadn't screwed him was much shorter than the line for those who had.

But – oh god. Had he really bawled like the world's biggest baby? All over him? Ianto wondered if you could die of mortification.

He tried to sit up, but a powerful wave of nausea washed over him, and he ended up laying on his side, his mouth watering and his stomach roiling, making him wonder if he'd make it to the bathroom in time or if he'd just barf on the floor.

He heard the door open, and Jack said, "Good, you're up. Don't move." Ianto would have asked him why, but before he was certain he could open his mouth without having the contents of his stomach spew out, Jack pressed something cool and smooth against his forehead. He couldn't see it, but the tide of nausea started ebbing, and in about a minute his stomach settled down. He still couldn't breathe through his nose, though. "Wow. What is that?" Ianto asked, as Jack removed it from his forehead. He could see it looked like a paperweight, a smooth oval stone that had a faint pink tinge to it, and was about the size of his palm.

"It's a Nacrian," Jack said, as if he should know what the hell that was supposed to mean. "It soaks up all toxins and digests them for energy. I use these on the odd occasion I over-indulge."

Ianto pushed himself into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. Jack looked chipper and well rested, like he always did. "You should market those as a hangover cure. You'd make a fortune."

He grinned (number three). "Except if you leave it on too long it fuses with your skin, and digests you. Besides, I couldn't see selling a living creature."

"It's alive?" Suddenly he was a bit grossed out.

"In a manner of speaking." Jack put the thing on his writing table, and Ianto could now see the Nacrian crystal – or whatever it was – was pulsing faintly. Holy shit, it was alive.

Ianto wasn't quite ready to face Jack just yet, so he excused himself and ducked into the bathroom. He was a fucking mess – his eyes were still swollen and red, and his hair had decided to become a sea anemone. Terrific.

He soaked his face in cold water as long as he could stand it – he'd picked up that trick from Lisa; it brought swelling right down – brushed the moldy fuzz off his teeth, and tried to tame his hair. At the end, he still looked like he'd spent most of the night crying. Damn it. Might not be anything for it. At least he had a spare suit upstairs, mainly because he knew from experience you could be Weevil hunting in the sewers or covered in alien goop when you least expected to be.

Jack had left him alone, and he thought he might be able to escape without encountering him, but he'd just left Jack's room when he intercepted him. "Feeling better?"

Well, best to get this out of the way. "Considering, yeah. Um, look, about last night -"

"What about it?" he replied cheerfully, giving him smile number five, the one that said "Nothing's wrong here; move on".

Ianto stared at him in mild disbelief. "That's – that's it? I -"

"The last few days have been tough. We all need to vent. No harm, no foul. But maybe you want to have dinner before you start shotgunning whisky again, huh?"

In a bizarre way, he'd almost have preferred it if Jack wasn't so understanding. He shook his head, not quite sure what to say. "I'm sorry. I don't know -"

Jack took his face in his hands, and kissed him. It was a deep, passionate kiss that took his breath away, and Ianto could do nothing but grab him and pull him to him. Embarrassment was replaced by desire – he wanted to pull him back into the room and finish what they started last night. He smelled so good, he felt so good it seemed wrong.

But Jack pulled away gently, still cupping his face, looking him straight in the eyes. "Any time you want me – sober - you know where to find me." He gave his face a gentle pat and then turned and walked away. "Tosh'll be here soon. You might want to get the coffee on."

He stood there, slightly dazed. "Uh, yeah." He just had a terrible premonition he could really fall for Jack. And what a disaster that would be.

Oh well. No help for it now. He went to put the coffee on.