Rosie (ravanasnape) wrote in torchwoodcoffee,
Rosie
ravanasnape
torchwoodcoffee

Ok, here goes my first posted Torchwood fic...

Title: He Is Nothing Any More
Author: RavanaSnape
Rating: R to be on the safe side (mention of suicide/naked!Jack)
Pairing: Ianto/Jack Ianto/Lisa
Warning: Quite angsty
Spoilers: Whole of TW series one and Doomsday/Army of Ghosts

Author's Notes: This isn't beta'd as I didn't want to bother the lovely cyberamanda who is busy betaing my other fic. However I don't think there are any glaring mistakes, but feel free to concrit. 

  
Fresh out of Oxford, headhunted to London. The beginning of a bright new year, a bright new future. It takes him six months to get settled. It is explained that he works for one of four – this one is the main branch, the others being offshoots to deal with recurring phenomena. The first night he gets home, a small flat with more cardboard boxes than furniture, and pours himself a stiff drink. For one wild moment he wishes he’d taken the offer from the security services. Torchwood scares the shit out of him. Slowly though, he adapts. He works hard, gets noticed. Like ripples on a pond, whispers begin to abound about him. About the security clearance he has, about his job – technically archives, but then… what kind of archives need keeping at 2am on a Sunday morning? What kind of archives require that he goes armed at all times? Archivist; researcher; Yvonne’s Golden Boy.

He is all these things and more.

The first thing he notices is her smile. The way it puts dimples in her cheeks and lights up her eyes. Unlike those he now works with, she isn’t jaded. She hasn’t seen the real horrors – doesn’t know the real reason why Torchwood exists. Despite all this however, she asks him out. Perhaps on a dare – his stoic professionalism is treated with either caution or ridicule, the rumours have quietened now but people still pay attention to one of two things. It’s either his accent, so at odds with his suit, or his occasional smiles, so at odds with his security clearance and level of expertise.
She seems not to notice this. For the first time since leaving university he smiles freely and of his own accord. He takes up climbing and camping, childhood pursuits long forgotten. He thinks, late at night when she sleeps in his arms, that she might be the one. She whispers to him softly, calls him friend, lover, beloved.

He is all these things and more.

He is good at surviving. It was one of the first things he learnt as a child. So it comes as no surprise, when his head clears on Boxing Day that he’s alive. He picks up the remnants of his life and moves to where he thinks he’ll be safe. He wants to optimise his chances of success. And because it will help, so he tells himself, he flirts with his new boss and buys more expensive suits. He still has his archives but now he makes coffee for others, not the other way around. He endures much, in the name of survival. Hired because he looks cute in a suit, kept as a second-rate archivist, cleaner and coffee boy.

He is all these things and more.

To be honest it was inevitable that the shit would hit the proverbial fan. For the first time in his life his loyalties are openly divided. Before, he told himself that his subversive actions served a second goal of research – that if successful he would have helped his love and his company. Standing with a gun pressed to his head he says anything he can, knowing which of the Captain’s buttons to press, knowing he has to survive, has to help Torchwood. Because that is what he’s good at. Standing in front of her, gun limp in his hand, he’s not so sure. He remembers so much. Candlelit dinners, walks in the park, whispers in artificial twilight. He remembers friend, lover, and beloved. Now he is confronted with traitor, Judas, freak.

He is all these things and more.

Several months later, he gets out of bed and pauses to look behind. The sight of his Captain, curled up naked under the sheets does not perturb him as it used to. He has survived in body, if not wholly in spirit. Sustained by a stopwatch and a faith in authority. His idealism is long broken, but his loyalty is not. He knows so much about the man who nightly writhes beneath him. Not a fraction of what he would like, but enough to keep him there, to make him think that perhaps living is not so bad after all. He feels detached from so much nowadays; he suspects the Captain is the same. Here, together, they feel alive. He sometimes thinks he’s the only one stopping the man from working his way down an extensive list that no one else is meant to know about, but Ianto does anyway. The one that begins, ‘Drowning – no use.’ Later on Owen teases him and he tries to keep himself calm and comforted against the barrage of stinging words. Pathetic, tea boy, part-time shag.

He is all these things and more.

In barely 48 hours he knows he was wrong. That he had filled his own head with grand delusions on a theme. That a life with so much promise has come to naught, that from now on food will taste as ashes in his mouth and his night will be haunted by her screams and the Captain’s smile. He is no longer the tea boy; Gwen makes the coffee, trying to ease the burden but only making it worse. He hasn’t been beloved for a while now; her body lies in the Torchwood morgue. He cannot clean, when the team do it for him and he doesn’t think Owen, the new commander, wants him to be a part-time shag. He sits in a corner and tries not to fall apart, tries to ignore the buzzing in his ears.

He is nothing any more.

Tags: fanfic
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  • 19 comments

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