silver_sun (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
silver_sun) wrote2010-07-17 11:40 pm
silver_sun) wrote2010-07-17 11:40 pm
Fic: In Darkness
Okay I know this isn't part 6 of Past Imperfect (which is still being work on), but looking through the stuff I've got on an old memory stick I found this, which I finished sometime last summer. So here it is.
Title: In Darkness
Rating: pg13
Characters/Pairings: Jack/Ianto, mentions of Gwen/Rhys.
Word count: 3723
Warnings: Post series 2. Brief non graphic mention of past torture.
Summary: Sometimes even Jack needs rescuing. Until then he's just got his own thoughts for company, and they aren't pleasant ones.
Jack isn’t sure how much time has passed since he woke in chains, apart from the fact that even a single second is far too long. He knows that is was woken rather than revived, as in his unfortunately extensive experience, nobody ever bothered to restrain a corpse.
For now he concentrates on just breathing. In and out, slow and steady, pushing down the mind numbing panic he’d felt on waking. When, for a few disorientating, heart-pounding moments he’s thought he was still aboard the Valiant. Frantic, Jack had struggled against the manacles, the harsh metal chafing his wrists until they bled.
It had only been the realisation that he was still wearing his greatcoat, something that he hadn’t been permitted to wear aboard the Valiant, and the thick, cloying smell of mold in the air rather than sharp tang engine oil, that had eventually made him pause.
Dim light filters in through a crack in a trapdoor, barely alleviating the muggy gloom of the room he’s in. The room, a cellar as far as he can tell, is damp, the hot summer sun outside heating the moist air until the room feels stifling with the humidity. It’s eerily silent apart from his own breathing, no sound from outside penetrates the stillness, and the hope that shouting for help, that there might be someone outside who would hear him, dies almost before it’s realised.
It's just an old cellar, he tells himself, as he tries to ignore the familiar ache that is growing in his shoulders, it's not the Valiant, it's not even close. The alien who’d chained him up had only done so so that he couldn’t interfere with its plans to tap into the city's power grid to recharge its ship.
If it hadn't been so hostile, and if it hadn't been violent toward everybody that it came in contact with, he might have considered helping it, he might have even felt sorry for it. Now all he wants to do is wring it spindly, scaly neck and make it sorry it ever having set foot in Cardiff.
But to do that he needs to get free. Tugging against the chains again, he ignores the pain and the slick slide of blood down his arm as he rips open the half healed scabs from his earlier struggles. There is still no give in the metal, nor is there any suggestion that his efforts might be starting to pull them loose from the wall where they are anchored. The harder he struggles without success the greater the feeling of futility and failure becomes.
Hot and aching, Jack eventually stops, slumping as much as his restraints will allow. He wishes that the alien had thought to remove his greatcoat before chaining him up. He knows that when Ianto see the mess he’s made of it he’ll complain about how difficult it is to get blood out of the wool and how the dry cleaners are getting suspicious for all the weird stains that he asks them to remove from Jack’s clothing. It would be good natured complaining though, a little verbal sparring between them that frequently ended up with neither of them wearing any clothes.
Closing his eyes he tries to concentrate on hearing any small sound from outside again, any indication at all that somebody might have come to find him. But all there is is an empty silence.
Soon, he tells himself as he tries to ignore the sharp sting of sweat from his over heated skin as it trickles across the cuts and scrapes on his wrists. Soon he’ll hear the sound of the SUV pulling up outside. Soon he’ll hear Gwen and Iantos’ voices as they call out to him, and then he’ll answer, and they’ll be reunited.
Gwen will fuss over him, asking him if he’s all right, what happened to him and if there is anything she can to so help, while Ianto will calmly tell him everything that has happened, and what, if anything, still needs to be done.
Then, once they’re back at the Hub and Gwen has gone home to Rhys and the normal life that Jack so desperately wants her to have, Ianto will help him out of his coat. Closing his eyes he can picture it, the quiet concern on Ianto’s face as he sees the torn and blooded shirt sleeves, the look of love in his eyes as he kisses him reminding him that he’s home and safe.
A kiss that will continue until Ianto offers to shower with him. It’s the kind of offer that Jack never turns down, because he knows how Ianto will carefully wash the blood from his arms and massage his aching shoulders until he can forget today ever happened, and maybe even find enough peace to sleep.
He smiles. It won’t be long now.
Sweat trickles down his back, the thick wool collar of his coat growing damp and itchy against his skin. He rolls his shoulders, to relieve the ache of having them held out at chest height.
It’ll be soon.
Soon.
Any minute now really.
The heat of the day starts to fade and shadows that the dim light casts across the floor begin to lengthen.
As minutes crawl slowly into hours the lack of success in freeing himself and the absence of any form of rescue starts to weigh on his mind. Empty minutes fill themselves with unpleasant scenarios that his mind plays out with such frightening clarity that it leaves his heart pounding.
What if the alien had succeeded in re-fuelling its craft, would it leave Cardiff without freeing him? Or if his team are left with no choice but to kill the alien, would they be able to find him? And even if they do find him how long will it take? Hours? Days? Longer? He knows he won’t die, well he knows he won’t stay dead at any rate. It’s not a comfort though as in Jack’s experience there are a lot worse states to be in than dead.
What if the alien has killed them? Breath catches in his throat and closes his eyes, desperate not to even have to consider the possibility that he could have lost two people he cares so much about. The fact that if they are dead then nobody will be looking for him is secondary, the idea of losing them so soon after Owen and Toshiko drowning out the fear that he could die many times over before anybody finds him.
It’s only when the salt wetness of tears that he didn’t realise he was shedding dampens his lips that Jack realises how thirsty he’s become. He knows that it’s been at least eight hours, and probably more since he’s had anything to drink. Long hours spent driving, running, being unconscious and trying to free himself. He can start to feel the effects of it, of dehydration, the dull beginnings of a headache starting to throb behind his eyes.
Three days without water, that was the accepted rule for dying of thirst, but Jack knows that’s only an estimate. Something that assumes you’re well hydrated to start with and that you aren’t hot, humid room wearing several yards of heavy wool. Taking all that into account he knows that it could be a lot less.
He's never died of dehydration before, but he's willing to bet on it not being pleasant. It’s probably right up there with starvation and radiation poisoning as one of the ways that he really doesn’t want die.
With a snarl of frustration Jack wrenches hard at the chains, determined that this is not going to be the time that he finds out how bad it can be. The chains creak, and despite the growing pain in his shoulders and wrists, Jack smiles, suddenly confident that he’s finally getting somewhere.
Tugging each chain in turn, Jack knows that he’s going to have to choose one or the other to concentrate on. The right chain seem a little more slack than the left, and Jack hopes that might give him just the extra leverage that he needs to pull free – it worked a few times on board the Valiant. Not that his escape attempts had got him anything other than a series of quick and relatively painless deaths from semi-automatic gun fire. Still it had been a distraction, seeing just how far he could get before death caught up with him. It had, in some strange way, made him feels less helpless, even if the result had been exactly the same on the fourteen times that he’s managed it.
Tensing his arm, Jack takes a couple of deep breathes, psyching himself up. Then, putting all of his weight behind it, he pulls as hard and fast as he can.
Jack hears as much as feels his shoulder separate, the joint wrenched free of its socket with the force his movement. The pain is instant, blinding and he screams. It doesn’t help and the room greys around the edges before falling away into merciful blackness.
A moment later he's conscious again, his shoulder feeling like it's on fire, every movement sending sharp spikes of pain through him. He can't breathe, his throat feels raw and the room spins dizzyingly, his heart hammering, body flooding itself with endorphins as it tries to fight the pain.
He knows that once his shoulder's put back he'll start healing, that after a few minutes it would be nothing more than a slight ache and a minor inconvenience. That, however, is of little comfort as he has no way of putting it back, and the more it swells the harder it'll be. He knows that whatever it is that keeps him alive will heal it even if he doesn’t put it back, but that will mean spending the next six hours or so feeling it slowly, gratingly return to its socket of it own accord.
Closing his eyes Jack tries to breathe evenly, tries to breathe out the pain and the fear of more pain to come. He wonders if he should try dying, knowing that if he did he’d come back with his shoulder intact and then he'll be able to try again with the chains. Only he’s not entirely sure how he's going to be able to achieve killing himself being as he hasn’t got use of his hands.
He supposes he could bite through his tongue and then he’d bleed or choke to death. It would be relatively quick all things considered, but it’s so grim Jack’s not sure he could bring himself to do it, not yet anyway. He’s not that desperate, not this time.
He's has been in the past though, just once, on board the Valiant. The Master had been cutting him, burning him, sealing the wounds before he bled to death. It had been endless, excruciating. Before that day Jack hadn’t known that it was possible to survive, let alone be conscious through such pain. He still wishes that he didn’t.
Closing his eyes Jack tries to drive those memories away. He can feel tears, hot with pain, frustration and fear running down his face and he wishes he could stop them, knowing that all they achieve is a marginally faster death by dehydration.
Time crawls and Jack can feels his shoulder grate and pull as it tries to work itself back into joint. Even the smallest movements hurt, injured muscles cramping and spasming until Jack can’t stop himself from crying out. Still nobody comes, his pained cries and shouts for somebody, anybody to find him, help him, go unheard or at the very least unheeded.
Slowly the last of the light fades, the shadows coalescing as the cellar’s dim twilight is replaced by an all consuming darkness. A darkness in which Jack can hear the skittering of tiny claws against the flagstones and the sound of teeth gnawing periodically on the wooden beams.
Several times during the night, a night than feels longer than almost any other that he’s known, he feels something brush past his ankles, and occasional scrabble against his leg. He shouts, kicking out, trying to chase it away, sick fear building in his stomach that if he doesn’t, if one manages to take hold more will come and he won’t be able to stop them.
The earlier fear of biting his tongue and drowning in is own blood pales beside the growing primal horror of being slowly consumed alive. It’s unlikely, but it leaves a knot of fear in his stomach that just won’t seem to fade.
It reminds him of the trenches of the first World War, the dank darkness, the skittering rats, feeling that you were cut off from everything. Yet even there he hadn’t felt truly alone, there had been the men he’d served with, and somehow by pulling together they’d made it just bearable.
Here he’s alone. Totally alone. It’s like being on the Game Station, with nothing but Dalek dust and the lifeless bodies of all those the Daleks had exterminated. It had been nearly a week until he’d managed to get off that orbiting hell, and week with nothing but the decaying dead and his own fear for company.
But it hadn’t been dark there. Not dark and damp like this. Like a grave. Like the one John and Grey had buried him, the heavy soil dark and cold, choking and damp, filling his eyes and mouth until he couldn’t even cry out. Eight times he’d revived during that time in the ground, eight times the weigh of the earth drove the air from his lungs, killing him far quicker than oxygen deprivation alone. Jack thinks that he should be thankful that it wasn’t more, only it’s hard to truly be grateful for any part of being buried alive.
The night passes slowly, time measured in fragments of half remembered songs and memories sung and said aloud to drive away the rats and the feeling of isolation.
When dawn finally comes it has never been so welcome, the pale light growing and driving away the shadows in to the corners of the cellar. His shoulder still feels bruised and weak, but it’s a minor inconvenience now. After having been awake and without water for nearly a day everything is starting to feel a little hazy.
Once Jack is sure that he hasn’t heard or seen any of the rats for at least half an hour he finally allows himself to close his eyes.
Jack’s barely conscious as the light begins to fade for a second time, his head hanging forward, unable to find the energy to raise it.
It’s just as the last of light is gone and the sound of rats beginning their nightly explorations is search of food that the cellar door opens.
The light from torches is too bright and it hurts his eyes, yet it is one of the most welcome sights that he’s seen. He wants to call out to them, to thank them for finding him, for not abandoning him, but his throats too dry for more than a hoarse croak.
“Oh god.” Gwen’s voice cuts through the silence as she limps quickly over to him.
“Jack?” Ianto’s hand is reassuring where it strokes the side of his face.
“Left. Left first.” Jack’s not sure if he’s even said it aloud. He doesn’t want to be left hanging by his injured shoulder, not now when he’s almost certain that his legs aren’t going to support him.
Ianto seems to hear, or to realise, and works quickly to prise the chains loose from the beams, while Gwen takes up position next to him, ready steady Jack once the chains are gone.
Gwen and Ianto have got him, are supporting him as he stumbles between them out to the SUV.
Ianto drives while Gwen continues to talk at him and gives him small sips of water. He's not really conscious of the words, but the tone is soothing in its familiarity, and he can feel some of the blind panic that had over took him in the cellar start to fade.
If he had the energy Jack knows he’d take the bottle of water and drink it in one. He’s almost glad that he hasn’t though, as he knows that would probably result in him being sick, something that he really doesn’t want to add to how rough he’s still feeling.
Stopping the SUV outside Gwen and Rhys flat, Ianto gets out and holds the door open for Gwen.
“I’ll take him from here. You go home to Rhys.” Ianto hugs Gwen briefly, giving her a reassuring smile. “And get some ice on that ankle.”
“Call me if you need anything,” Gwen says, as Rhys comes out to meet them, and help her limp inside.
“We'll be all right, really,” Ianto calls back as gets into the SUV.
Jack doesn't argue when Ianto drives to his flat rather than the Hub. After spending the last two days underground, and all the nightmare making associations that now has for him, Jack doubts that trying to rest in the claustrophobic space under his office would do him any good.
Stumbling out of the SUV Jack leans against its side, wondering how he’s going to get to up to Ianto’s flat before his legs give way, as at the moment it feels like it’s taking all his concentration, every ounce of strength just to remain on his feet.
Walking round to him, Ianto moves stiffly, one arm curled protectively against his side now that they are alone.
“The tail on that thing was a lot stronger than it looked,” Ianto explains when Jack gives him a questioning look. “It’s nothing that a hot shower and some sleep won’t fix.”
“And Gwen?” Jack asks, wishing he'd been aware enough to ask Gwen himself before she'd gone home. As for the fate of the alien, Jack knows that Ianto and Gwen must have dealt with it one way or another before they found him. The actually details of how, Jack decides really don't matter all that much right now.
“Twisted her ankle when she tackled it, after it knocked me down.” Ianto helps Jack get his uninjured arm about his shoulder. “A few days rest and she should be okay. You should give her some time off.”
Jack nods wearily, hoping that the Rift will be quite enough to allow them all a bit of free time.
Leaning on each other, they eventually manage the stairs and get inside.
Later, showered and fed, Jack sits in Ianto’s bed, listening to the faint sounds of Ianto tidying the bathroom before coming to bed.
His throat still feels rough and dry, although he knows he's already starting to recover; he doesn't want to think about the sort of state he would be in if he didn't have the accelerated healing that seems to be part of his immortality.
It doesn't help the fear though, and he’s scared that next time - because honestly between knowing the Doctor, and working for Torchwood there’s always going to be a next time - he’s not going to be able to hold together. That by the time rescue comes his mind will be gone, and he’ll be nothing more than a mindless immortal shell, doomed to wander insane for the rest of time.
Shivering, Jack wraps his arms about himself, willing the tremors back under control before Ianto returns, not wanting him to see how much this latest experience has shaken him.
Eventually, Ianto climbs awkwardly into bed beside him, still trying to hide the pain and stiffness of his own injuries.
Jack shivers again as Ianto switches off the light and lays down to sleep. It’s involuntary, but he can’t help but feel a rush if shame as Ianto sits awkwardly back up, one arm still held across his bruised stomach, and turns the light back on.
“What’s wrong?” Ianto asks, concern clear in his eyes.
Jack wonders for a moment if he should ask if they could keep the light on, just for tonight, but that seems selfish as he knows that Ianto hates sleeping with the light on, finding it almost impossible to switch off. Jack forces a smile. “It’s nothing, I’m just cold.”
“If you’re sure.” Ianto doesn’t sound totally convinced, but is too exhausted to argue.
“Yeah.”
Jack waits until Ianto has switched the light off again before curling against him, feeling Ianto’s arm drawing him close, trying to help him warm up.
Sleepless, Jack rests his head on Ianto’s chest listening to the strong, steady heartbeat. He wants to take comfort in the fact that as long as it’s beating he’s not alone, yet all it seems to do is remind him just how fragile and mortal Ianto is, and how easily he could lose him.
Jack knows that in a few days he’ll be past the worse of it, that before too long the last couple of days will be relegated to just one of many unpleasant moments in his past, scares him. It scares him because it makes him wonder if he’s losing something, some part of him that’s still human or at least clings to humanity.
Because if living forever is a terrifying thought, then living forever and losing himself in the process is beyond terrifying. It’s something that Jack isn't sure there’s a word to describe the sheer horror of it.
Huddling against Ianto, Jack supposes that at least he’s got all the time in the universe to come up with one.
Title: In Darkness
Rating: pg13
Characters/Pairings: Jack/Ianto, mentions of Gwen/Rhys.
Word count: 3723
Warnings: Post series 2. Brief non graphic mention of past torture.
Summary: Sometimes even Jack needs rescuing. Until then he's just got his own thoughts for company, and they aren't pleasant ones.
Jack isn’t sure how much time has passed since he woke in chains, apart from the fact that even a single second is far too long. He knows that is was woken rather than revived, as in his unfortunately extensive experience, nobody ever bothered to restrain a corpse.
For now he concentrates on just breathing. In and out, slow and steady, pushing down the mind numbing panic he’d felt on waking. When, for a few disorientating, heart-pounding moments he’s thought he was still aboard the Valiant. Frantic, Jack had struggled against the manacles, the harsh metal chafing his wrists until they bled.
It had only been the realisation that he was still wearing his greatcoat, something that he hadn’t been permitted to wear aboard the Valiant, and the thick, cloying smell of mold in the air rather than sharp tang engine oil, that had eventually made him pause.
Dim light filters in through a crack in a trapdoor, barely alleviating the muggy gloom of the room he’s in. The room, a cellar as far as he can tell, is damp, the hot summer sun outside heating the moist air until the room feels stifling with the humidity. It’s eerily silent apart from his own breathing, no sound from outside penetrates the stillness, and the hope that shouting for help, that there might be someone outside who would hear him, dies almost before it’s realised.
It's just an old cellar, he tells himself, as he tries to ignore the familiar ache that is growing in his shoulders, it's not the Valiant, it's not even close. The alien who’d chained him up had only done so so that he couldn’t interfere with its plans to tap into the city's power grid to recharge its ship.
If it hadn't been so hostile, and if it hadn't been violent toward everybody that it came in contact with, he might have considered helping it, he might have even felt sorry for it. Now all he wants to do is wring it spindly, scaly neck and make it sorry it ever having set foot in Cardiff.
But to do that he needs to get free. Tugging against the chains again, he ignores the pain and the slick slide of blood down his arm as he rips open the half healed scabs from his earlier struggles. There is still no give in the metal, nor is there any suggestion that his efforts might be starting to pull them loose from the wall where they are anchored. The harder he struggles without success the greater the feeling of futility and failure becomes.
Hot and aching, Jack eventually stops, slumping as much as his restraints will allow. He wishes that the alien had thought to remove his greatcoat before chaining him up. He knows that when Ianto see the mess he’s made of it he’ll complain about how difficult it is to get blood out of the wool and how the dry cleaners are getting suspicious for all the weird stains that he asks them to remove from Jack’s clothing. It would be good natured complaining though, a little verbal sparring between them that frequently ended up with neither of them wearing any clothes.
Closing his eyes he tries to concentrate on hearing any small sound from outside again, any indication at all that somebody might have come to find him. But all there is is an empty silence.
Soon, he tells himself as he tries to ignore the sharp sting of sweat from his over heated skin as it trickles across the cuts and scrapes on his wrists. Soon he’ll hear the sound of the SUV pulling up outside. Soon he’ll hear Gwen and Iantos’ voices as they call out to him, and then he’ll answer, and they’ll be reunited.
Gwen will fuss over him, asking him if he’s all right, what happened to him and if there is anything she can to so help, while Ianto will calmly tell him everything that has happened, and what, if anything, still needs to be done.
Then, once they’re back at the Hub and Gwen has gone home to Rhys and the normal life that Jack so desperately wants her to have, Ianto will help him out of his coat. Closing his eyes he can picture it, the quiet concern on Ianto’s face as he sees the torn and blooded shirt sleeves, the look of love in his eyes as he kisses him reminding him that he’s home and safe.
A kiss that will continue until Ianto offers to shower with him. It’s the kind of offer that Jack never turns down, because he knows how Ianto will carefully wash the blood from his arms and massage his aching shoulders until he can forget today ever happened, and maybe even find enough peace to sleep.
He smiles. It won’t be long now.
Sweat trickles down his back, the thick wool collar of his coat growing damp and itchy against his skin. He rolls his shoulders, to relieve the ache of having them held out at chest height.
It’ll be soon.
Soon.
Any minute now really.
The heat of the day starts to fade and shadows that the dim light casts across the floor begin to lengthen.
As minutes crawl slowly into hours the lack of success in freeing himself and the absence of any form of rescue starts to weigh on his mind. Empty minutes fill themselves with unpleasant scenarios that his mind plays out with such frightening clarity that it leaves his heart pounding.
What if the alien had succeeded in re-fuelling its craft, would it leave Cardiff without freeing him? Or if his team are left with no choice but to kill the alien, would they be able to find him? And even if they do find him how long will it take? Hours? Days? Longer? He knows he won’t die, well he knows he won’t stay dead at any rate. It’s not a comfort though as in Jack’s experience there are a lot worse states to be in than dead.
What if the alien has killed them? Breath catches in his throat and closes his eyes, desperate not to even have to consider the possibility that he could have lost two people he cares so much about. The fact that if they are dead then nobody will be looking for him is secondary, the idea of losing them so soon after Owen and Toshiko drowning out the fear that he could die many times over before anybody finds him.
It’s only when the salt wetness of tears that he didn’t realise he was shedding dampens his lips that Jack realises how thirsty he’s become. He knows that it’s been at least eight hours, and probably more since he’s had anything to drink. Long hours spent driving, running, being unconscious and trying to free himself. He can start to feel the effects of it, of dehydration, the dull beginnings of a headache starting to throb behind his eyes.
Three days without water, that was the accepted rule for dying of thirst, but Jack knows that’s only an estimate. Something that assumes you’re well hydrated to start with and that you aren’t hot, humid room wearing several yards of heavy wool. Taking all that into account he knows that it could be a lot less.
He's never died of dehydration before, but he's willing to bet on it not being pleasant. It’s probably right up there with starvation and radiation poisoning as one of the ways that he really doesn’t want die.
With a snarl of frustration Jack wrenches hard at the chains, determined that this is not going to be the time that he finds out how bad it can be. The chains creak, and despite the growing pain in his shoulders and wrists, Jack smiles, suddenly confident that he’s finally getting somewhere.
Tugging each chain in turn, Jack knows that he’s going to have to choose one or the other to concentrate on. The right chain seem a little more slack than the left, and Jack hopes that might give him just the extra leverage that he needs to pull free – it worked a few times on board the Valiant. Not that his escape attempts had got him anything other than a series of quick and relatively painless deaths from semi-automatic gun fire. Still it had been a distraction, seeing just how far he could get before death caught up with him. It had, in some strange way, made him feels less helpless, even if the result had been exactly the same on the fourteen times that he’s managed it.
Tensing his arm, Jack takes a couple of deep breathes, psyching himself up. Then, putting all of his weight behind it, he pulls as hard and fast as he can.
Jack hears as much as feels his shoulder separate, the joint wrenched free of its socket with the force his movement. The pain is instant, blinding and he screams. It doesn’t help and the room greys around the edges before falling away into merciful blackness.
A moment later he's conscious again, his shoulder feeling like it's on fire, every movement sending sharp spikes of pain through him. He can't breathe, his throat feels raw and the room spins dizzyingly, his heart hammering, body flooding itself with endorphins as it tries to fight the pain.
He knows that once his shoulder's put back he'll start healing, that after a few minutes it would be nothing more than a slight ache and a minor inconvenience. That, however, is of little comfort as he has no way of putting it back, and the more it swells the harder it'll be. He knows that whatever it is that keeps him alive will heal it even if he doesn’t put it back, but that will mean spending the next six hours or so feeling it slowly, gratingly return to its socket of it own accord.
Closing his eyes Jack tries to breathe evenly, tries to breathe out the pain and the fear of more pain to come. He wonders if he should try dying, knowing that if he did he’d come back with his shoulder intact and then he'll be able to try again with the chains. Only he’s not entirely sure how he's going to be able to achieve killing himself being as he hasn’t got use of his hands.
He supposes he could bite through his tongue and then he’d bleed or choke to death. It would be relatively quick all things considered, but it’s so grim Jack’s not sure he could bring himself to do it, not yet anyway. He’s not that desperate, not this time.
He's has been in the past though, just once, on board the Valiant. The Master had been cutting him, burning him, sealing the wounds before he bled to death. It had been endless, excruciating. Before that day Jack hadn’t known that it was possible to survive, let alone be conscious through such pain. He still wishes that he didn’t.
Closing his eyes Jack tries to drive those memories away. He can feel tears, hot with pain, frustration and fear running down his face and he wishes he could stop them, knowing that all they achieve is a marginally faster death by dehydration.
Time crawls and Jack can feels his shoulder grate and pull as it tries to work itself back into joint. Even the smallest movements hurt, injured muscles cramping and spasming until Jack can’t stop himself from crying out. Still nobody comes, his pained cries and shouts for somebody, anybody to find him, help him, go unheard or at the very least unheeded.
Slowly the last of the light fades, the shadows coalescing as the cellar’s dim twilight is replaced by an all consuming darkness. A darkness in which Jack can hear the skittering of tiny claws against the flagstones and the sound of teeth gnawing periodically on the wooden beams.
Several times during the night, a night than feels longer than almost any other that he’s known, he feels something brush past his ankles, and occasional scrabble against his leg. He shouts, kicking out, trying to chase it away, sick fear building in his stomach that if he doesn’t, if one manages to take hold more will come and he won’t be able to stop them.
The earlier fear of biting his tongue and drowning in is own blood pales beside the growing primal horror of being slowly consumed alive. It’s unlikely, but it leaves a knot of fear in his stomach that just won’t seem to fade.
It reminds him of the trenches of the first World War, the dank darkness, the skittering rats, feeling that you were cut off from everything. Yet even there he hadn’t felt truly alone, there had been the men he’d served with, and somehow by pulling together they’d made it just bearable.
Here he’s alone. Totally alone. It’s like being on the Game Station, with nothing but Dalek dust and the lifeless bodies of all those the Daleks had exterminated. It had been nearly a week until he’d managed to get off that orbiting hell, and week with nothing but the decaying dead and his own fear for company.
But it hadn’t been dark there. Not dark and damp like this. Like a grave. Like the one John and Grey had buried him, the heavy soil dark and cold, choking and damp, filling his eyes and mouth until he couldn’t even cry out. Eight times he’d revived during that time in the ground, eight times the weigh of the earth drove the air from his lungs, killing him far quicker than oxygen deprivation alone. Jack thinks that he should be thankful that it wasn’t more, only it’s hard to truly be grateful for any part of being buried alive.
The night passes slowly, time measured in fragments of half remembered songs and memories sung and said aloud to drive away the rats and the feeling of isolation.
When dawn finally comes it has never been so welcome, the pale light growing and driving away the shadows in to the corners of the cellar. His shoulder still feels bruised and weak, but it’s a minor inconvenience now. After having been awake and without water for nearly a day everything is starting to feel a little hazy.
Once Jack is sure that he hasn’t heard or seen any of the rats for at least half an hour he finally allows himself to close his eyes.
Jack’s barely conscious as the light begins to fade for a second time, his head hanging forward, unable to find the energy to raise it.
It’s just as the last of light is gone and the sound of rats beginning their nightly explorations is search of food that the cellar door opens.
The light from torches is too bright and it hurts his eyes, yet it is one of the most welcome sights that he’s seen. He wants to call out to them, to thank them for finding him, for not abandoning him, but his throats too dry for more than a hoarse croak.
“Oh god.” Gwen’s voice cuts through the silence as she limps quickly over to him.
“Jack?” Ianto’s hand is reassuring where it strokes the side of his face.
“Left. Left first.” Jack’s not sure if he’s even said it aloud. He doesn’t want to be left hanging by his injured shoulder, not now when he’s almost certain that his legs aren’t going to support him.
Ianto seems to hear, or to realise, and works quickly to prise the chains loose from the beams, while Gwen takes up position next to him, ready steady Jack once the chains are gone.
Gwen and Ianto have got him, are supporting him as he stumbles between them out to the SUV.
Ianto drives while Gwen continues to talk at him and gives him small sips of water. He's not really conscious of the words, but the tone is soothing in its familiarity, and he can feel some of the blind panic that had over took him in the cellar start to fade.
If he had the energy Jack knows he’d take the bottle of water and drink it in one. He’s almost glad that he hasn’t though, as he knows that would probably result in him being sick, something that he really doesn’t want to add to how rough he’s still feeling.
Stopping the SUV outside Gwen and Rhys flat, Ianto gets out and holds the door open for Gwen.
“I’ll take him from here. You go home to Rhys.” Ianto hugs Gwen briefly, giving her a reassuring smile. “And get some ice on that ankle.”
“Call me if you need anything,” Gwen says, as Rhys comes out to meet them, and help her limp inside.
“We'll be all right, really,” Ianto calls back as gets into the SUV.
Jack doesn't argue when Ianto drives to his flat rather than the Hub. After spending the last two days underground, and all the nightmare making associations that now has for him, Jack doubts that trying to rest in the claustrophobic space under his office would do him any good.
Stumbling out of the SUV Jack leans against its side, wondering how he’s going to get to up to Ianto’s flat before his legs give way, as at the moment it feels like it’s taking all his concentration, every ounce of strength just to remain on his feet.
Walking round to him, Ianto moves stiffly, one arm curled protectively against his side now that they are alone.
“The tail on that thing was a lot stronger than it looked,” Ianto explains when Jack gives him a questioning look. “It’s nothing that a hot shower and some sleep won’t fix.”
“And Gwen?” Jack asks, wishing he'd been aware enough to ask Gwen himself before she'd gone home. As for the fate of the alien, Jack knows that Ianto and Gwen must have dealt with it one way or another before they found him. The actually details of how, Jack decides really don't matter all that much right now.
“Twisted her ankle when she tackled it, after it knocked me down.” Ianto helps Jack get his uninjured arm about his shoulder. “A few days rest and she should be okay. You should give her some time off.”
Jack nods wearily, hoping that the Rift will be quite enough to allow them all a bit of free time.
Leaning on each other, they eventually manage the stairs and get inside.
Later, showered and fed, Jack sits in Ianto’s bed, listening to the faint sounds of Ianto tidying the bathroom before coming to bed.
His throat still feels rough and dry, although he knows he's already starting to recover; he doesn't want to think about the sort of state he would be in if he didn't have the accelerated healing that seems to be part of his immortality.
It doesn't help the fear though, and he’s scared that next time - because honestly between knowing the Doctor, and working for Torchwood there’s always going to be a next time - he’s not going to be able to hold together. That by the time rescue comes his mind will be gone, and he’ll be nothing more than a mindless immortal shell, doomed to wander insane for the rest of time.
Shivering, Jack wraps his arms about himself, willing the tremors back under control before Ianto returns, not wanting him to see how much this latest experience has shaken him.
Eventually, Ianto climbs awkwardly into bed beside him, still trying to hide the pain and stiffness of his own injuries.
Jack shivers again as Ianto switches off the light and lays down to sleep. It’s involuntary, but he can’t help but feel a rush if shame as Ianto sits awkwardly back up, one arm still held across his bruised stomach, and turns the light back on.
“What’s wrong?” Ianto asks, concern clear in his eyes.
Jack wonders for a moment if he should ask if they could keep the light on, just for tonight, but that seems selfish as he knows that Ianto hates sleeping with the light on, finding it almost impossible to switch off. Jack forces a smile. “It’s nothing, I’m just cold.”
“If you’re sure.” Ianto doesn’t sound totally convinced, but is too exhausted to argue.
“Yeah.”
Jack waits until Ianto has switched the light off again before curling against him, feeling Ianto’s arm drawing him close, trying to help him warm up.
Sleepless, Jack rests his head on Ianto’s chest listening to the strong, steady heartbeat. He wants to take comfort in the fact that as long as it’s beating he’s not alone, yet all it seems to do is remind him just how fragile and mortal Ianto is, and how easily he could lose him.
Jack knows that in a few days he’ll be past the worse of it, that before too long the last couple of days will be relegated to just one of many unpleasant moments in his past, scares him. It scares him because it makes him wonder if he’s losing something, some part of him that’s still human or at least clings to humanity.
Because if living forever is a terrifying thought, then living forever and losing himself in the process is beyond terrifying. It’s something that Jack isn't sure there’s a word to describe the sheer horror of it.
Huddling against Ianto, Jack supposes that at least he’s got all the time in the universe to come up with one.
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Well done.
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Really excellent, breathless, story.
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He wants to take comfort in the fact that as long as it’s beating he’s not alone, yet all it seems to do is remind him just how fragile and mortal Ianto is, and how easily he could lose him.
Heartbreaking.
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Thanks for writing! :)