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TItle: More Than Enough
Author: Aisalynn
Fandom: Torchwood
Characters/Pairing: Jack/Ianto, Jack/Gwen, mentions of Jack/Nine, Jack/Rose
Rating: PG13
Summary: Late at night, Jack reflects.
Jack ran his fingers lightly over Ianto’s face, careful not to wake him as they traced paths down the bridge of his nose, over the full, dark eyebrows, along the line of his jaw, and finally, lingeringly, on his lips.
Those pouting lips.
Ianto would probably protest that. He would stand up straight, run his hands over his crisp suit like he was smoothing the creases of his ruffled dignity and say something stiff and formal like, “I was not pouting, sir,” accompanied by a pointed glare that told Jack the thought was not appreciated.
But it was true: no one could pout like Ianto. His whole face would transform: expression became tense and withdrawn, eyes would go distant as he stared off into space, mind intent on the thoughts and emotions he never shared with anyone else. Jack could always tell when something was wrong, just by looking at him.
And he always looked. Jack would never forgive himself for what happened with Lisa, would never forget the look in Ianto’s eyes that night.
Such anger and pain and resentment.
The gun felt heavy and cold in his hand. The sting of betrayal burned through him, but his voice was calm as he instructed Ianto to kneel, hand steady as he pressed the barrel directly to the man’s forehead.
“You hid a Cyberman within Torchwood? And you didn’t tell us? What else are you keeping from us?”
“Like you care! I clear up your shit, no questions asked and that’s the way you like it.”
The light of the flashlight glinted harshly in Ianto’s eyes, revealing accusation within them, and angry tears balancing on dark lashes.
“When did you last ask me anything about my life?”
Jack would never forget that he’d failed him.And such a failure it was too. Ianto wasn’t the same after that. He carried his sorrow and guilt like weights upon him, every movement slow, careful, calculated, as if one wrong, unplanned movement and he would tear something inside of him.
Wounded. That was how he looked. Wounded and yet dignified: with his crisp suits and perfect posture, dark eyes filled with pain as he served the morning coffee.
And Jack was the cause of a lot of that pain.
He’d seen the looks Ianto would give him and Gwen when they worked together, sad and despairing, noticed the silence between them on days when they had gotten just a little too close, days when he’d have to stop himself from doing anything to come between her and Rhys. He remembered the expression on Ianto’s face the day Gwen threatened to leave Torchwood if she was forced to drug Rhys.
It took five steps to cross the room to where she stood in front of him, angry and defiant, and he stopped just short of too close, toeing that invisible line they were always aware of, the one they had come so close to crossing so many times.
“Do you really think you could go back to your old life before Torchwood?”
Her eyes had widened when he’d got so close, but her jaw remained clenched, chin jutted out at a stubborn angle. “I wouldn’t know anything different.”
“I would.”
His voice was hoarse from repressed emotion. He was practically shaking from the anger and jealousy running through him. And the fear, fear that she really would leave Torchwood, leave him.
There was a tense silence. The only sound was that of each other’s breathing, harsh as they each fought for control.
He bit the inside of his lip, letting the shock of the pain calm him down.
“Give Rhys my love and I will you see you tomorrow.” She didn’t wait for him to say anything else, but turned quickly away from him, practically fleeing from the room. He watched her leave, all anger suddenly gone, leaving him empty.
He remembered Ianto’s face afterwards as he stormed by him, not even pausing as he grabbed the metal part from his hand: a sort of stunned disbelief, and panic, like he’d just had the breath knocked out of him and was trying to force his lungs to work again.
Yes, there was a lot of pain because of him.
But he’d also noticed that where once Ianto was quiet and reserved, barely speaking outside the structure of formality, of polite indifference, he was now often in the hub with the others, conversing freely, letting his quick wit and intelligence and his--rather twisted--sense of humor show.
Ianto sat down in the wooden chair, slipping his wrists into the leather straps that would hold Beth’s arms down as they used the mind probe.
“Take it easy, Jack,” Tosh instructed as she walked to her computer. “Stop at the first sign of trouble.”
“Or the first sign of exploding.” Everyone glared at Ianto after he said this, which didn’t stop him from doing an impersonation of a man being electrocuted in the chair…
Jack looked around at all the sleeping guests scattered across the room as he addressed his team. “That’s right guys, its been a busy day but we are not done yet. We’ve got a lot to do, we’ve… got a major mop-up operation. And I want your best work. Remember, its Gwen’s wedding.”
Ianto rolled his eyes as they all they separated. “That’s what I love about Torchwood: by day, chasing the scum of the universe, come midnight you’re the wedding fairy.”
Jack would like to think that he was a part of that too.
But somehow, Jack knew that wasn’t enough, that he wasn’t enough. Ianto wanted so much that he couldn’t give. He’d never admit to it, but Jack knew he wanted more than a few late night, office shags every now and then, more than a bare army cot in a corner. He wanted a relationship, and all the 21st century implications that go along with it. It scared him sometimes, how much Ianto really wanted it.
It scared him how sometimes, when Jack could forget about the lies and the secrets, about time rifts and space travel, about John, and Estelle, and Gwen, he really wanted it too.
It was realizations like this that really made Jack miss the Doctor.
It was so simple then, living on the TARDIS with Rose and the Doctor, loving them both without pain, without sorrow. They were free, jumping from galaxy to galaxy, era to era, taking delight in each other and all the wonders time had in store for them. It was as if they were children, and that’s all the world was: delight and wonderment.
“Rose!” the Doctor cried out as the soft tones of the “Moonlight Serenade” faded and was replaced by the upbeat entrance of “In the Mood.”
“I’ve just remembered! I can dance! I can dance!” He had to raise his voice over the saxophone and trumpets as he danced his way over to them, snapping his fingers as he moved.
“Actually, Doctor, I thought Jack might like this dance.” She ducked her head a little as she said this, as if self conscious.
The Doctor kept right on dancing. “I’m sure he would Rose, I’m absolutely certain--but who with?” He gave a sort of wicked grin as he whisked her off.
They laughed as they moved, the unrestrained laughter of two people completely comfortable with each other. They danced around the ship, steps in sync, smiles in place. Jack smiled too as he watched them, certain that, if given the chance, he would dance with them both…
That was so long ago. It seemed as if he’d lived a dozen lifetimes since then.
He’d tried to go back to it, but he’d learned something during that year he was chained on the Master’s ship, when he couldn’t stop himself from seeing his team’s faces in his mind, imagine what had happened to them. A thousand different horrors had gone through his mind, and all of them made worse by the fact that he wasn’t there to lead them, to help them. He’d learned then that the present wasn’t so easy to give up as he’d thought. And that you can’t go back to your own past.
Not even with time itself at your fingertips.
He’d gone back to them with a new resolution: to protect and grow closer to all of them, to accept the time he was in and really live. He’d ran back to the hub with plans for the future already being created in his mind. But those plans never saw fruition. Owen was so angry when he came back, and Ianto hurt, aloof. He’d failed to protect them: Tosh from the pain and heartache he’d had to experience so often over the years, Owen from Death itself. And Gwen…
Gwen had a ring on her finger.
Her wedding had been tonight. The confetti he had blown in the doorway had clung to him, and he could see some of it now, scattered about the room, visible on the crumpled pile of his clothes next to the bed, and even on Ianto’s, which were folded and placed much more neatly on the desk chair.
And what a wedding it was. Secretly, he had been sort of glad that it hadn’t gone smoothly. The shape-shifter gave him something to focus on, something to fight. He’d been caught up in the excitement of the chase, the adrenalin, the rush. It was only after it was all over that he had to experience the pain: when he placed her hand in Rhys’s, watched them say their vows to each other, watched them dance. It was only then that he had to feel the pain of letting her go.
He rubbed his thumb back forth over her knuckles as he cradled her hand to his chest, he could hear the rustling of her dress as they moved, smell the perfume she wore.
“Will you miss me?” she asked, her eyes peering searchingly into his.
“Always.” His answer was immediate, and it was the truth. “Rhys is a lucky man.”
He hadn’t wanted to let her go, to give up a moment so close to perfection, to watch her with another. But Ianto was there, and his bigger hand filled his suddenly empty one, his familiar cheek pressed against Jack’s.
It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t what he imagined when he’d been chained away, and the only thing keeping him from going mad from the grief and the anger and the frustration were the dreams he had, the dozens and dozens of what ifs.
But it was enough.
Jack followed Ianto’s jaw line with his fingers to his ear, and from there down the neck, pausing to feel the pulse and then moving on to a bare shoulder. Ianto shifted in his sleep, making a little irritated moan as his eyebrows constricted and his bottom lip pushed forward into a perfect pout. Jack smiled.
It was more than enough.
