Author: Marie Whi Mitshue (tarapierson)
Warnings/Rating: SLASH. Maybe R or so for angst, and gory bits here and there.
Blink and you miss ‘em!spoilers for “Everything Changes”, “Cyberwoman”, and “Contrycide”. Just in case, tho, say the whole series, up till maybe “Out of Time”?
Pairing: Jack/Ianto…eventually? Implied? Er…
Summary: So it couldn’t be Jack screaming like they were opening him up and slicing his heart out of his chest while he was still alive.
Notes: Just a little something I had floating around my harddrive. Trying to get the angst out of me with fic. That’s a healthy attitude, yeah?
X-posted at torch_wood, torchwoodcoffee, & jackxianto.
MY FIRST TORCHWOOD FIC, though not my first fanfic. Unbetaed.
Ianto Jones bolted awake in his dank, cold little cell, as a man’s screams echoed through out the alien complex.
He leaned against the diagonal bars of the door, straining to see out into the dimly-lit corridors.
The screams were getting worse, more torn and anguished, and Ianto stumbled back, falling on his ass on the dirty metal floor as something in that hoarse, screaming voice clicked in his head. Something familiar and beloved…
The man screaming…it was…it sounded like Jack’s voice.
Ianto scrambled up and threw himself at the bars.
“No, no, it can’t be, can’t be him,” He breathed to himself. It couldn’t be, the rest of his team had gotten away safe, and he knew they’d come back and rescue him, all he had to do is wait, and try to create an opening for escape. Take a bit of abuse, yeah, these particular aliens were sadist, sick pigs, but it wouldn’t be for long…
So it couldn’t be Jack screaming like they were opening him up and slicing his heart out of his chest while he was still alive.
That mental image hit him like a hand grenade to the stomach. Jack, stripped of his billowy coat and ever-present braces, bloody, skin and muscle hanging off him in strips, organs exposed to the air, heart beating in a terribly fast rhythm, torturer’s bloody hands reaching inside, small, sharp knife glinting in his hand.
Jack’s face twisted in agony, skin ashen beneath the splattered blood, oh so expressive eyes shut tight, tendons standing out in his neck as his mouth opened wide on those screams.
His knees gave way, and he just barely managed not to be sick. He wrapped his arms around himself and shook, half of him trying to protest that that couldn’t be Jack, he was safe, he’d be coming, him and Owen, Gwen and Tosh. The other half was screaming, sobbing that the man being tortured was Jack, and it was all his fault for being stupid enough to get caught, for starting the whole mess by stumbling into the lair of the alien slavers they’d been trying to stop.
One of the guards – the one who’s bloodied Ianto’s lip earlier and gave him an interesting set of bruises on his hips – came to the door of the cell, smirking at the pitiful sight the Torchwood agent made.
“Thought you’d like to know, that’s your man screaming there.” He told him with a sick grin, and the screams suddenly reached a new high of agony – and then abruptly, raggedly cut off.
The guard shrugged massive shoulders, greenish, slit-pupiled eyes glittering with malicious pleasure. “That’s it for him. Guess you thought he’d come and save you, huh? He’s nothing but rotting meat now, pretty boy.” He taunted as Ianto stared up at him, wishing terribly for the screams – for anything was better than this silence that told him that Jack had just died…because of him. Jack, who’d survived Daleks and Cybermen, who’d survived cannibals and electrocution and being shot and who knew what else, one of the very few people Ianto cared about in the entire universe, who wasn’t supposed to be able to die -
“Oh, I know, maybe this’ll ease your pain!” The guard said, in the worse mock-sympathetic voice Ianto had ever heard, and stuffed something in through the bars. He walked on laughing, loud and cruel.
A little whimper escaped Ianto, and his shaking fingers were reaching out of their own accord. His fingertips met thick, expensive material, slick and wet with crimson that merely looked wetly black on the dark wool in the dim light.
A terrible cry escaped him, and he grabbed the object up, shook it out, hoping he was deceived somehow. But no, it was Jack’s familiar military-style overcoat, soaked through with blood. The one Jack was never without when he was outside of the Hub.
“No, no, no…” He whimpered. If this was Jack’s greatcoat, then that man with the screams, now dead….he was Jack. Jack wasn’t supposed to die! Jack was supposed to be Immortal!!
He hastily searched the waistcoat’s pockets, hoping to find something that would prove it was not Jack’s.
The inside pocket yielded a flat, Polaroid picture, the black back to Ianto’s gaze. With a broken sob, Ianto flipped it over, smearing the blood beaded on the surface of the photograph. In the photo, Ianto himself stared back, laughing and smiling, as Jack leaned close, flirting with him, using terribly bad, cheesy pick up lines. Tosh and Owen were visible in the side of the photo, smiling and smirking respectively. Gwen had taken the photo, had snapped off several that day and given different ones to each of her co-workers in a fit of bonding or team-building or something. Ianto had one pinned up at his work station in the reception building, of himself, Jack, Tosh and Owen mock-fighting over the last fried wonton.
“No, no, NO!” He screamed, dropping the coat and photo to throw himself against the bars like a maddened animal, screaming and howling.
When he came back to himself, he was sprawled on the floor of the cell, hands and arms bruised and bleeding, body aching, clutching Jack’s bloody greatcoat to his face, crying so violently that he was sure his body would shake apart. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Jack wasn’t supposed to be…
His blood was splattered on the bars of the cell door, but that was the only mark he’d made on them.
He hugged Jack’s coat to his chest and clutched at the photo, brushing shaking fingertips over Jack’s smiling face in the photo, red-stained fingers smearing across the plastic, sobbing more quietly now…as his heart fell to pieces and glittering shards in his chest.
Sucky, not sucky, what? Lemme know.