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mclachlandSuspension
Prologue (of a projected 18 chapters)
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mclachlan
Summary: "If you're asking if I would follow Jack into death… then yes. Yes."
Note: Thank you, my darlingetharei, for the beta.
Ianto buries the greatcoat on the 27th day that Jack stays dead.
Jack, himself, gets a cold drawer in the morgue: #43725. It's a strong number. Solid. Divisible by five. A small, unworthy testament to the man that saved mankind from the creature called Abaddon. There should have been parades, monuments erected in the name and likeness of Jack Harkness, or even a quiet celebration among the team, champagne and confections, party hats that Owen would have been loathed to wear.
At least they'd let him bury the coat, surrendering only upon the realization that he might kill them all should they deny him.
His role at Torchwood is tentative at best, now. They won't keep him, not for much longer, not now that his loyalties have proven to lie not with the organization. It'll be something quick, either Retcon or a bullet to the brain, the request signed and dated by the Her Majesty, the Queen. She has no need for an employee that makes coffee, cleans up, and will answer only to the dead.
Dead.
Twenty-seven days.
At least they'd let him bury the coat.
Llangelynnin is a fitting place, if only for the fact that it's as far away from Torchwood as Ianto can possibly go without leaving the country. It's a selfish symbol, burying Jack's trademark in Welsh soil. The religious overtones of it are frightening in their magnitude; he doesn't think Jack was religious, in any way, but the man always found ways to surprise him.
It's old. Pardoning the distance, it's the only other reason Ianto chose it. Jack would have appreciated its history, dating back to the 12th century, simple and unobtrusive. Ianto can see Jack in his office, asking about it, mangling the name with his fake American tongue, obscenely rolling all those L's with a grin and a wink.
Ianto shivers, mostly because of the image that presents. Although it is cold.
"Here we are," he murmurs, flicking on his torch and casting its light over the hallowed grounds of Llangelynnin, the sudden flood of light causing some kind of rodent to jump and scurry away in fright. The grass stretches out, surrounding old, weather-beaten stones, epitaphs scratched away by time, and for a moment Ianto sees the world as Jack must have: beautiful, cold, forsaking those that had been there before and those that came after. Eventually, everything slips away, left behind to make way for what will be, Time the only constant remaining. Time, and Jack.
Ianto pulls the lapels of the greatcoat closer, the wool heavy and nearly painful on his frame. He knows now that for Jack it wasn't just a fashion statement, or inability to let go of the past, but another burden to carry, another weight added to them. He has no business wearing Jack's coat, but it's a small comfort, and Jack's scent is still present in the fabric. Twenty-seven days and he can still smell the man.
He wonders what Jack would think of him now, wearing his coat, preparing Jack a parody of a funeral, alone and cold in Rowen, miles away from home and most likely marked for death. Ianto smiles. Jack would find it hilarious, no doubt. 'The rule-abiding, clean-cut Ianto Jones, trespassing through a graveyard in the middle of the night for an illegal burial-- I love it!'
Smile fading, Ianto pushes across the premises, his old trainers fending off possible stumbles with their shield of fading traction, holding the torch like a weapon, ready to battle anyone that gets in his way. Torchwood's hand, while large, wouldn't stretch up this far, and not for a lower-level employee.
I'm much more than a tea-boy.
"I thought Ffynnon Gelynin would be best suited for you, sir," Ianto whispers, climbing over a stone bench, fingers gripping ancient moss, the cuffs of the coat stained with dirty moisture and memory. "There's a legend, that the waters were able to cure sick children."
He slides down, careful to lift the tails of the coat, and shines his light over the rectangular pool. The water is frighteningly still.
"Parents would throw items of their children's clothing into the water," he continues, crouching down, one hand going to the dark well, the other reaching up to brush over the wool by his neck, the material stained with old sweat and blood. The fluids to make the elixir of life. Ianto closes his eyes and breathes Jack in. "If the clothing floated, their child would live. If it sank, their child would die."
He pauses, waiting for an answer that isn't forthcoming, and then smiles at his foolishness. "Forgive me, sir, but it did seem like your kind of tale."
This is it.
Once it's over, he'll leave, depart for destinations unknown, unwilling to wait for a life sentence to be meted out by Gwen, the new head of Torchwood Three, who'd given him the coat with a mix of pity and duty in her eyes. He'd thought she would have put up more of a fight, pushed for some kind of change, demanded that Jack Harkness's Torchwood would not die with him.
Maybe America, then, to search for traces of Jack in purple mountains majesty, in amber waves of grain. To look into every face and see him there, his laugh, his accent, in eyes that held his hope for a better future that does not, cannot, exist. The future is bleak, a wash-rinse cycle of lovers, usurpers, betrayal, and death.
"What say you, sir?" Ianto asks, sliding the coat from his shoulders, gasping in surprise as the night chill hits him without the added protection, fingers tightening in the wool. "I hear that the White Mountains are beautiful; perhaps I'll go and see what the fuss is all about, chase the morning from peak to peak. You'd enjoy that, sir, all that grandeur."
He pauses, coat in hands, and leans toward the dark well, wishing he was the person who had the words for a situation like this. He's not. He's never been, even before Torchwood. On the whole, he's rubbish with words. Lisa used to say that if she wasn't so sure of his love, she would be forever guessing. And Jack --
"Oh. Hello."
Adrenaline floods Ianto and he scrambles to his feet, Jack's coat clutched reflexively to his chest. He holds his torch out, shining the light on a man standing just over the swell of a small hill. Black clothes, white collar. A priest.
Exhaling in relief but keeping the light trained, Ianto calls out, "I was under the impression that the church closed years ago."
The man draws closer, smiling. "I take care of things. Sometimes hold sermons. Nothing's ever completely finished, you know."
There's something off, something that sets Ianto on edge, but he nods politely. "Of course."
Stiff white gleams at the man's throat in the light of the torch, and Ianto finds himself momentarily entranced. It's so stark, so final, the authority that Ianto began to disobey the moment he heard the name Torchwood, but he doubts that this priest knows about the things Ianto knows, has seen the things Ianto has seen.
The man's eyes are old, but the skin at the corners crinkle as he smiles, gesturing to the coat in Ianto's grip. "In mourning?"
Ianto's breath rattles in his throat, audible and annoying as a rock in a tin can. "How do you figure?"
"You'd be here in the middle of the night for little else." He holds out a hand. "Gavril. It's a pleasure."
First name only. Ianto can work with that. He's probably better off for it. "Ianto."
"Now," Gavril says, still smiling, still holding onto Ianto's hand, "unless you were planning on spending the better part of the week with hypothermia, I suggest you leave Llangelynnin where it is. Won't do much for a burial, I'll tell you what."
Breathing out, eyes stinging with cold and defeat, Ianto steps over the well with the help of Gavril's hand. He releases the priest the moment his feet are steady, but his hand flexes of its own accord, a sudden rush of blood through it warming him up. Ianto glances up at Gavril, but the priest is already turning away, striding across the grass, down the hill.
"Not many people remember this place," Gavril murmurs, but his voice carries like a shout through the night. "It's old, far too old to even be a novelty any longer. People have an odd aversion to being around old things; it reminds them of their own mortality. No one likes to be reminded that they won't live forever."
"Even the people who are supposed to don't," Ianto agrees quietly, and Gavril laughs.
"No one is supposed to live forever. Goes against the rules. But, sometimes, things… happen. Shakes things up a bit. And then everything's a mess -- the kind of mess that burying a lover's coat won't fix."
There. That.
"Who are you?" Ianto whispers, numb, limbs heavy and lethargic with cold. Gavril smiles at him, silent, and continues on his way down the grassy slope, away from the little stone church, too old to be a novelty any longer. The moonlight follows him.
"But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead."
Gavril turns to grin at Ianto over his shoulder, eyes glowing in the light of the moon, the trembling light of Ianto's torch. He can't stop shaking, he can't move.
"But what of your captain, fallen cold and dead?"
"How do you know?" Ianto gasps out, struggling against invisible bindings, unwilling and unable to either match Gavril in tone or stride. "How could you know? Jack was --"
"Jack is." Gavril pivots on his heel, turning in a sharp and fluid circle, arms outstretched. "Ah, our eternal paradox. Your Captain Jack upset the biggest balance of all. Neither mortal, nor Divine. Mortals die, the Divine do not know death. There is no in-between, except for when there suddenly was."
Before Ianto can draw breath to protest, to demand answers, Gavril is there, lips a hair's length from his.
"And that changes everything. Flouting the law, creating an in-between where there ought to not be one. There is no such thing as an immortal mortal."
Ianto closes his eyes, wishing he could take a step back, stop sharing air with the man whose white collar is blinding him. "It's not Jack's fault. He never asked for it."
"He dispatched the dark creature, Abaddon, believing he would survive the task, never once thinking that it might be the day that he didn't wake up. The immortal mortal has been recalled, because no living thing is allowed to break the Rules." Gavril runs his thumb over Ianto's trembling cheek. "His contract, written in permanent ink, will never be up. Can never be up. And that creates problems."
Ianto opens his eyes and stares into Gavril's, unflinching from what he sees there. It's indescribable, but not daunting. "Then fix it."
"We cannot. We are Divine, and your captain is not. We cannot alter it, nor can we have him do it. The Divine and the Mortal do not have contact."
"And yet, here we are."
Gavril grins. "And yet, here we are. Tell me, how much do you love your captain, Mr. Jones?"
Ianto jerks at the mention of his surname, but Gavril does not move away, merely digs his thumb into the soft swell of Ianto's cheek.
"How far are you willing to go for him? He can never know peace where he is now. The immortal mortal does not belong in Heaven, or in Hell. But the in-between, the plane of folly, can hold him. Would you bring him back here? Do you love him enough for that? Enough to follow him through fire, frost and frond? Enough to follow him beyond? Would you fight through brimstone and corruption? Would you deny yourself paradise if only for the chance to touch his fingertips one last time?"
Tears, hot and traitorous, spill over Ianto's cheeks, over Gavril's thumb, and Ianto nods. "If you're asking if I would follow Jack into death… then yes. Yes."
Gavril brings his lips to Ianto's jaw, kisses him softly, kisses him up to the delicate curve of his ear. "There are risks."
"I don't care," Ianto breathes, arousal and disgust warring in his belly. "Just tell me what to do."
Gavril's tongue darts out to taste his skin. "Once you hit rock bottom, you can only go up. In order to find him, you must start at the end. Find his contract, and then take it to the last choir. Bring back the one you love, Mr. Jones. Do what Torchwood will not."
Before Ianto can gasp his surprise, there is an explosion of light, encompassing everything, washing away the age of the world and bringing forth its novelty.
God speed, Ianto Jones.
Gavril, Gabriel, fades into white, and Ianto knows nothing.
Chapter One: Purgatory
Prologue (of a projected 18 chapters)
mclachlanSummary: "If you're asking if I would follow Jack into death… then yes. Yes."
Note: Thank you, my darling
etharei, for the beta.Ianto buries the greatcoat on the 27th day that Jack stays dead.
Jack, himself, gets a cold drawer in the morgue: #43725. It's a strong number. Solid. Divisible by five. A small, unworthy testament to the man that saved mankind from the creature called Abaddon. There should have been parades, monuments erected in the name and likeness of Jack Harkness, or even a quiet celebration among the team, champagne and confections, party hats that Owen would have been loathed to wear.
At least they'd let him bury the coat, surrendering only upon the realization that he might kill them all should they deny him.
His role at Torchwood is tentative at best, now. They won't keep him, not for much longer, not now that his loyalties have proven to lie not with the organization. It'll be something quick, either Retcon or a bullet to the brain, the request signed and dated by the Her Majesty, the Queen. She has no need for an employee that makes coffee, cleans up, and will answer only to the dead.
Dead.
Twenty-seven days.
At least they'd let him bury the coat.
Llangelynnin is a fitting place, if only for the fact that it's as far away from Torchwood as Ianto can possibly go without leaving the country. It's a selfish symbol, burying Jack's trademark in Welsh soil. The religious overtones of it are frightening in their magnitude; he doesn't think Jack was religious, in any way, but the man always found ways to surprise him.
It's old. Pardoning the distance, it's the only other reason Ianto chose it. Jack would have appreciated its history, dating back to the 12th century, simple and unobtrusive. Ianto can see Jack in his office, asking about it, mangling the name with his fake American tongue, obscenely rolling all those L's with a grin and a wink.
Ianto shivers, mostly because of the image that presents. Although it is cold.
"Here we are," he murmurs, flicking on his torch and casting its light over the hallowed grounds of Llangelynnin, the sudden flood of light causing some kind of rodent to jump and scurry away in fright. The grass stretches out, surrounding old, weather-beaten stones, epitaphs scratched away by time, and for a moment Ianto sees the world as Jack must have: beautiful, cold, forsaking those that had been there before and those that came after. Eventually, everything slips away, left behind to make way for what will be, Time the only constant remaining. Time, and Jack.
Ianto pulls the lapels of the greatcoat closer, the wool heavy and nearly painful on his frame. He knows now that for Jack it wasn't just a fashion statement, or inability to let go of the past, but another burden to carry, another weight added to them. He has no business wearing Jack's coat, but it's a small comfort, and Jack's scent is still present in the fabric. Twenty-seven days and he can still smell the man.
He wonders what Jack would think of him now, wearing his coat, preparing Jack a parody of a funeral, alone and cold in Rowen, miles away from home and most likely marked for death. Ianto smiles. Jack would find it hilarious, no doubt. 'The rule-abiding, clean-cut Ianto Jones, trespassing through a graveyard in the middle of the night for an illegal burial-- I love it!'
Smile fading, Ianto pushes across the premises, his old trainers fending off possible stumbles with their shield of fading traction, holding the torch like a weapon, ready to battle anyone that gets in his way. Torchwood's hand, while large, wouldn't stretch up this far, and not for a lower-level employee.
I'm much more than a tea-boy.
"I thought Ffynnon Gelynin would be best suited for you, sir," Ianto whispers, climbing over a stone bench, fingers gripping ancient moss, the cuffs of the coat stained with dirty moisture and memory. "There's a legend, that the waters were able to cure sick children."
He slides down, careful to lift the tails of the coat, and shines his light over the rectangular pool. The water is frighteningly still.
"Parents would throw items of their children's clothing into the water," he continues, crouching down, one hand going to the dark well, the other reaching up to brush over the wool by his neck, the material stained with old sweat and blood. The fluids to make the elixir of life. Ianto closes his eyes and breathes Jack in. "If the clothing floated, their child would live. If it sank, their child would die."
He pauses, waiting for an answer that isn't forthcoming, and then smiles at his foolishness. "Forgive me, sir, but it did seem like your kind of tale."
This is it.
Once it's over, he'll leave, depart for destinations unknown, unwilling to wait for a life sentence to be meted out by Gwen, the new head of Torchwood Three, who'd given him the coat with a mix of pity and duty in her eyes. He'd thought she would have put up more of a fight, pushed for some kind of change, demanded that Jack Harkness's Torchwood would not die with him.
Maybe America, then, to search for traces of Jack in purple mountains majesty, in amber waves of grain. To look into every face and see him there, his laugh, his accent, in eyes that held his hope for a better future that does not, cannot, exist. The future is bleak, a wash-rinse cycle of lovers, usurpers, betrayal, and death.
"What say you, sir?" Ianto asks, sliding the coat from his shoulders, gasping in surprise as the night chill hits him without the added protection, fingers tightening in the wool. "I hear that the White Mountains are beautiful; perhaps I'll go and see what the fuss is all about, chase the morning from peak to peak. You'd enjoy that, sir, all that grandeur."
He pauses, coat in hands, and leans toward the dark well, wishing he was the person who had the words for a situation like this. He's not. He's never been, even before Torchwood. On the whole, he's rubbish with words. Lisa used to say that if she wasn't so sure of his love, she would be forever guessing. And Jack --
"Oh. Hello."
Adrenaline floods Ianto and he scrambles to his feet, Jack's coat clutched reflexively to his chest. He holds his torch out, shining the light on a man standing just over the swell of a small hill. Black clothes, white collar. A priest.
Exhaling in relief but keeping the light trained, Ianto calls out, "I was under the impression that the church closed years ago."
The man draws closer, smiling. "I take care of things. Sometimes hold sermons. Nothing's ever completely finished, you know."
There's something off, something that sets Ianto on edge, but he nods politely. "Of course."
Stiff white gleams at the man's throat in the light of the torch, and Ianto finds himself momentarily entranced. It's so stark, so final, the authority that Ianto began to disobey the moment he heard the name Torchwood, but he doubts that this priest knows about the things Ianto knows, has seen the things Ianto has seen.
The man's eyes are old, but the skin at the corners crinkle as he smiles, gesturing to the coat in Ianto's grip. "In mourning?"
Ianto's breath rattles in his throat, audible and annoying as a rock in a tin can. "How do you figure?"
"You'd be here in the middle of the night for little else." He holds out a hand. "Gavril. It's a pleasure."
First name only. Ianto can work with that. He's probably better off for it. "Ianto."
"Now," Gavril says, still smiling, still holding onto Ianto's hand, "unless you were planning on spending the better part of the week with hypothermia, I suggest you leave Llangelynnin where it is. Won't do much for a burial, I'll tell you what."
Breathing out, eyes stinging with cold and defeat, Ianto steps over the well with the help of Gavril's hand. He releases the priest the moment his feet are steady, but his hand flexes of its own accord, a sudden rush of blood through it warming him up. Ianto glances up at Gavril, but the priest is already turning away, striding across the grass, down the hill.
"Not many people remember this place," Gavril murmurs, but his voice carries like a shout through the night. "It's old, far too old to even be a novelty any longer. People have an odd aversion to being around old things; it reminds them of their own mortality. No one likes to be reminded that they won't live forever."
"Even the people who are supposed to don't," Ianto agrees quietly, and Gavril laughs.
"No one is supposed to live forever. Goes against the rules. But, sometimes, things… happen. Shakes things up a bit. And then everything's a mess -- the kind of mess that burying a lover's coat won't fix."
There. That.
"Who are you?" Ianto whispers, numb, limbs heavy and lethargic with cold. Gavril smiles at him, silent, and continues on his way down the grassy slope, away from the little stone church, too old to be a novelty any longer. The moonlight follows him.
"But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead."
Gavril turns to grin at Ianto over his shoulder, eyes glowing in the light of the moon, the trembling light of Ianto's torch. He can't stop shaking, he can't move.
"But what of your captain, fallen cold and dead?"
"How do you know?" Ianto gasps out, struggling against invisible bindings, unwilling and unable to either match Gavril in tone or stride. "How could you know? Jack was --"
"Jack is." Gavril pivots on his heel, turning in a sharp and fluid circle, arms outstretched. "Ah, our eternal paradox. Your Captain Jack upset the biggest balance of all. Neither mortal, nor Divine. Mortals die, the Divine do not know death. There is no in-between, except for when there suddenly was."
Before Ianto can draw breath to protest, to demand answers, Gavril is there, lips a hair's length from his.
"And that changes everything. Flouting the law, creating an in-between where there ought to not be one. There is no such thing as an immortal mortal."
Ianto closes his eyes, wishing he could take a step back, stop sharing air with the man whose white collar is blinding him. "It's not Jack's fault. He never asked for it."
"He dispatched the dark creature, Abaddon, believing he would survive the task, never once thinking that it might be the day that he didn't wake up. The immortal mortal has been recalled, because no living thing is allowed to break the Rules." Gavril runs his thumb over Ianto's trembling cheek. "His contract, written in permanent ink, will never be up. Can never be up. And that creates problems."
Ianto opens his eyes and stares into Gavril's, unflinching from what he sees there. It's indescribable, but not daunting. "Then fix it."
"We cannot. We are Divine, and your captain is not. We cannot alter it, nor can we have him do it. The Divine and the Mortal do not have contact."
"And yet, here we are."
Gavril grins. "And yet, here we are. Tell me, how much do you love your captain, Mr. Jones?"
Ianto jerks at the mention of his surname, but Gavril does not move away, merely digs his thumb into the soft swell of Ianto's cheek.
"How far are you willing to go for him? He can never know peace where he is now. The immortal mortal does not belong in Heaven, or in Hell. But the in-between, the plane of folly, can hold him. Would you bring him back here? Do you love him enough for that? Enough to follow him through fire, frost and frond? Enough to follow him beyond? Would you fight through brimstone and corruption? Would you deny yourself paradise if only for the chance to touch his fingertips one last time?"
Tears, hot and traitorous, spill over Ianto's cheeks, over Gavril's thumb, and Ianto nods. "If you're asking if I would follow Jack into death… then yes. Yes."
Gavril brings his lips to Ianto's jaw, kisses him softly, kisses him up to the delicate curve of his ear. "There are risks."
"I don't care," Ianto breathes, arousal and disgust warring in his belly. "Just tell me what to do."
Gavril's tongue darts out to taste his skin. "Once you hit rock bottom, you can only go up. In order to find him, you must start at the end. Find his contract, and then take it to the last choir. Bring back the one you love, Mr. Jones. Do what Torchwood will not."
Before Ianto can gasp his surprise, there is an explosion of light, encompassing everything, washing away the age of the world and bringing forth its novelty.
Gavril, Gabriel, fades into white, and Ianto knows nothing.
Chapter One: Purgatory
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-10-07 01:30 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-10-07 01:40 am (UTC)O__________________________________O
O.H. MY...
*looks on, speechless, and in awe*
no subject
Date: 2008-10-07 01:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-10-07 01:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-10-07 01:56 am (UTC)I want more! Make sure you email me when you update.
no subject
Date: 2008-10-07 02:01 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-10-07 02:01 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-10-07 02:02 am (UTC)So I was thinking Faustian bargain, and then got thrown for a loop when the bargain-striker turned out to be Gabriel. Or claimed to be.
Who is that figure, really? What is his agenda? Why use Ianto as a pawn to disrupt the status quo?
Um, which is to say, when is the next update and how often will you post? :D
no subject
Date: 2008-10-07 02:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-10-07 02:27 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-10-07 02:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-10-07 02:33 am (UTC)I'm excited to follow Ianto whereever you plan on sending him!
no subject
Date: 2008-10-07 02:46 am (UTC)Bronwyn
no subject
Date: 2008-10-07 02:47 am (UTC)Oh look, how sad. She saw Mclachlan had started another fic and her brain exploded.
::grin:: Very good. The thought of the loss Ianto suffers, losing Jack, made me tear up. I too have someone who's loss would absolutely destroy me. How much would I give to hear his voice again were it silenced?
Ah, nuts. Note to self, don't read before bedtime. You have a great skill for voicing feelings and emotions. I'm looking forward to the next bit.
no subject
Date: 2008-10-07 03:14 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-10-07 03:24 am (UTC)Love Ianto's reason for being where he is, and what he tells to Jack. I look forward to seeing what trials Ianto must go through to find Jack.
no subject
Date: 2008-10-07 03:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-10-07 03:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-10-07 03:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-10-07 03:42 am (UTC)This is good, intriguing.
More please
no subject
Date: 2008-10-07 04:11 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-10-07 04:12 am (UTC)In other words... I'm hooked and can't wait for more. :D
no subject
Date: 2008-10-07 04:15 am (UTC)So the Faust thing hit me too, but Gabriel? I'm thinking...Angel of Death, herald of the incarnation of God, the Annunciation, judgement-day-trumpet-blower? I can't come up with much else. Argh, what's going on?! This, of course, is probably your intent.
Great to know you've started something new. I will be watching with excitement!
no subject
Date: 2008-10-07 04:20 am (UTC)(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2008-10-07 05:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-10-07 05:27 am (UTC)And oooh, your journal looks different.
Wow
Date: 2008-10-07 06:32 am (UTC)