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“Don’t, Ianto. Please. Don’t leave me.”
Jack startled back to life with a small gasp. Something was wrong, he couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was, but something was very wrong and he knew it. And as far as he was able to remember this wasn’t just about the 456 wreaking havoc.
Scanning the eerily quiet room with his piercing blue eyes, his view still faded and blurred in the aftermath of resurrection, it took him a moment too long to realize that the cloth he’d just impatiently swatted off his still-rigid body was not a mere blanket. He was sitting in the midst of a makeshift morgue, casualty amongst casualties, corpses and corpses forever and ever on a disgustingly squeaking plastic gymnasium floor, meticulously arranged side by side and neatly covered in red sheets; but then again, he’d regenerated, he was alive and breathing. This was wrong, abominably wrong.
Then he recalled the events of the past couple of hours, remembered the smouldering bitter taste on Ianto’s lips when he’d kissed him goodbye; remembered his tearstained pleading subduing on his very last muffled breath.
Gwen was by his side, absentmindedly fiddling with the knot of Ianto’s tie, quietly sobbing away.
So peaceful, so beautiful, the ever-insomniac Jack had watched him sleeping on so many occasions. For once, Jack did not attempt to hide his tears. He pulled Gwen into a fierce hug from behind, giving her the comfort he yearned for, giving her the solace she could never reciprocate. His eyes were firmly on Ianto, watching him as if he slept, waiting in vain for his erratic sighs, for his tiny snores, for his unintelligible mumbling.
“There’s nothing we can do.”
“There’s always something we can do.”
Abruptly, he loosened the embrace. He couldn’t bear looking at Gwen any more, so he concentrated on Ianto, cupping his face, caressing his cheek, ghosting his fingertips over the wickedly tentative lips he’d kissed so often.
“I know, Jack,” Gwen breathed compassionately, “'tis horrible. I know how you feel, and I feel the same.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Jack spat, “You don’t. You can’t.”
“We’ve lost him. First Owen and Tosh, now Ianto…”
“You, Gwen dearest, ’ve lost a workmate, a friend at best. I’ve lost so much more.”
Gwen gawked sulkily.
“Give me a moment, will you please?”
“The 456… Jack, we’ve no time for that, not now. So many so much more important things to do…”
“There is nothing more important than Ianto.”
“Jack! Be sensible, please.”
“Get out.”
Ianto. It was all about Ianto now, all about Jack.
Ianto, the mellowest of smiles on his lips, serving the first coffee of the day. Ianto, splayed across his cluttered desk, gloriously dishevelled. Ianto, panting and quietly cheering after a successful Weevil hunt. Ianto, solemnly at Jack’s side upon some Cardiff rooftop, bearing with him even in the worst of times. Ianto, mercilessly teasing and flirting, letting his guard drop when nobody was watching. Ianto, mimicking pterodactyl screeches and laughing at last, tossing bits of chocolate and leftover chicken tikka at Myfanwy’s eyrie. Ianto, fierce and possessive, aiming his gun, protecting the rest of the team on some away mission. Ianto, sweet and painstakingly tender, fucking Jack into oblivion. Ianto, humble and unobtrusive, cleaning up litter and exploded alien faeces long after the rest of the team had left and never once complaining. Ianto, toying with the infamous stopwatch’s chain, adjusting his tie with a mischievous glint in his eye.
Beautiful Ianto. Loyal Ianto. Stubborn Ianto. Sexy Ianto. Lovely Ianto. Beloved Ianto.
Beloved, first and foremost.
A sob strangled its way out of the depths of Jack’s throat, of his despair, a muffled wail at first that grew to a bitterly regretful cry. He’d never admitted it before, he’d thoroughly fooled himself into believing in the part-time-shagging-the-teaboy-charade even long after the Year That Never Was changed everything and himself too, and now it was too late. Old wounds, long believed to be healed and safely scarred, ripping open anew with a shrieking tear that stabbed his hearing and his conscience. With history repeating itself over and over again, sometimes was always too late for Captain Jack Harkness.
Jack had mourned more than one lover in his endless lifetime. He had savoured every living moment and still refrained from loving his lovers to spare himself the repeated grief. He had failed spectacularly. He had allowed himself to fall, to fall for Ianto; and now Ianto had fallen on the battlefield, fallen for a greater cause neither of them could really believe in, even though they kept fighting for it relentlessly.
He scooped Ianto’s heavy body, lifeless but still warm and still limp, into his arms – cradling the back of his head, feeling the smooth fabric of his impeccably well-tailored suit, running his fingers through his wiry hair, caressing his stern, serene face that would never smile again. Jack’s tears dripped continuously onto Ianto’s face, gravity made their stream continue and had them softly rolling down his plump, pallid cheeks as if he himself were crying, too.
And then he kissed him, one last time, one final goodbye, laying the memories of all past kisses into this one chaste touch of immortal to dead lips. He’d taken them for granted and still cherished each and every one of them. And all of a sudden, he felt a responsive breath against his mouth.