Chapter Text
Autumn was one of Ianto Jones’ favorite time of year. Since he was a boy he’d loved the crisp smell of leaves, the cold wind blowing, the warmth generated by coats and mittens and the mists that shrouded the land, softened the edges, like mother nature had grace to dwindle softly, sweetly.
Now the mist was suffocating him.
“Eeeeeee-yaaAAAAAnn- toooOOOO” a voice called, unseen and seemingly omniscient. “eeee-yan-tooo.”
Ianto turned sure it had come from behind him, but was meet with nothing. The mist kept visability to a few meters infront of him, which wasn't much. He disdainfully remembered he had been relieved that this corn field was already harvested when they got here, but now he found it didn't make particular difference, the emptyness left no landmarks.
“Jack?” Ianto called into the mist, Jack had been behind him only a minute ago. “Jack?” No response.
Bullocks.
Looking at the monitor in his hand, he discerned the Alien tech that had drawn the two wayward men from their dinner was about two hundred paces in front of him. On one hand, he had lost Jack and didn't know what direction the SUV was, thus didn't know what he’d do with the tech when he got there. On the other, a conviently concealing mist, a disembodied voice and a lost companion while retrieving tech in a corn field was too coincidental. And Ianto Jones did not believe in coincidence; he did, afterall, work for Torchwood.
Two hundred paces had an old oak tree crowning through the mist. Now oak trees are innocuous enough, but oak trees that set off his comcorder and glowed slightly in the mist? Alien. And well campflaghed aliens were the worst.
With only a little trepidation, Ianto held out a hand to touch the bark of the old looking oak tree.
“yanto!” A voice from the mist called. Ianto whirled around.
“Captain?” He called into the mist, the accent on the voice was unmistakably American.
“O Captain! my Captain!” the voice responded. “rise up and hear the bells!” its location bounced around the mist. Ianto reached back, pocketing the Comcorder and pulling out his gun.
“Hello?” Ianto called into the mist. “Whose out there?”
“Rise up!—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills;”
Ianto took a few steps away from the tree, attempting to find the voice further in the mist.
“For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding; For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;”
“Look you, this planet is protected, if you come in peace that's fine, we aren’t looking to harm…” A rustle behind him caused Ianto to pivot, and promptly raise his suddenly inadequate firearm. Ianto had followed the voice fourty paces from the tree, but so too had the tree had followed at an alarming rate. Roots, now still, had shot up from the ground, vines had covered the earth and empty branches had swung around towards him. The tree looked positively carnivorous, and Ianto doubted his measly pistol was going to do much good.
“Captain!” he called once more, before his final retreat. The SUV had to be somewhere in …that… direction.
“O captain!” The voice was no longer behind him but to his left. Ianto slowly back pedaled to his right, where he hoped the SUV was, staring at the frozen tree the entire time. “dear brother!” the voice called, sounding a bit desperate.
Ianto spared a quick glance around and found he was about the trip on roots, the conniving tree had circled around his back. In fact it was surrounding his right, flank and forward, the only escape was- “dear brother!” Escape and voice to his left. It didn't take long for Ianto to choose the lesser of two evils.
Taking his eyes off of the tree, Ianto ran to the left, towards the disembodied, apparently friendly, voice. A glance behind him confirmed his suspision, the demonic tree of questionable immigration status grew unchecked and vicously when Ianto wasn't looking. Of course, Ianto tripped over stones when he didn't look where he was running.
He landed hard on his side, wind knocked out and ankle twisted.
“Dear Brother!” Helpful Voice called for a third time. And now that it was the most inconvient time Ianto was thinking that that was not precisely how the poem went. “this arm beneath your head; It is some dream that on the deck, You've fallen cold and dead.” Ianto was also pretty sure Helpful Voice was snarking at him.
“I’m not dead yet.” He muttered, to his shame, grabbed his torch and scrambled to his feet running after the voice once more. There was a fence ahead, seemed like the goal and Ianto almost made it without getting caught, but at the last second a oily vine wrapped around his right thigh and Gods did that hurt.
He grabbed onto the fence and held on, stopping his back ward motion. He can hear the roots digging through the earth and with strength motivated by the thought of the pain in his thigh being multiplied twenty fold, he pulled himself up and over the fence. He hit the ground with his back, struggling to pull breath and bounding to his feet prepared to move faster, because a paltry wrought iron fence wasn't going to stop this carnivorous bastard, when Iantos leg promptly gave out from under him.
Which really was fine because apparently a wrought iron fence was going to stop the bastard.
The alien tree had stopped at the fence line, looking frustrated at a barrer as if the wrought iron was impenitrable. Infact the tree was still writhing at the
fence line, the moving a disturbing sight with made Ianto skin crawl.
“O Captain! My Captain! our fearful trip is done;” The voice bounced around behind him, he got the impression it no longer was calling him forward. “The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won;”
“You know,” Ianto replied conversationally, “I appreciate you’re help but I'd really like to be properly introduced to my acompliaces.” The voice didn't respond.
“My name is Jones, Ianto Jones.” Nothing, nada, zip, zilch. Ianto sighed, and poked his leg, trying to figure out if it would hold his weight, trying to figure out
what to do from here. Really this was the time Jack usually reappeared, a moment after the catostrophe but still plenty of opurtunity to save the day.
“Captain?” Ianto called.
“My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;” the voice responded softly.
“oh now youre talking to me.”
“My brother will not feel my arm, he has no means nor will;”
“I appreciate your help, but you really need to work on plain English.”
“My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will.”
“Right.” The fallen jones rolled onto his side and carefully got to his feet. His right leg held his weight, but it was a tentative thing, full of pain, dull bone
aching pain and piercing skin stabing pain; which kind of made sense since some sort of vine venom had melted the cloth of his pants to his leg, probably burning his skin too.
Glancing over he finds the tree roots have stopped trying to assault the fence and have retreated a few meters back, the mist hides the tree trunk in the distance, but there are roots as far as Ianto could see. Ianto sat down heavily on the ground next to the fence, with his dinky pocket tool kit in hand and went to prying free an iron post or two. It was time to get back on this horse.