Title: Your Name Should Have Been Janus
Characters/pairings: Jack/Ianto, past Ianto/Lisa, OC
Warnings: Allusions to child abuse, underage sex, dub-con, suicidal thoughts and prostitution. And oh, did I mention the Angst? With capital A?
Spoilers: Set somewhere in s2, so no CoE spoilers whatsoever.
Disclaimer: All that is Torchwood is property of the BBC and Russell T. Davies; no copyright infringement intended. I own nothing, not even the key board I’m typing on.
Summary: Things are never as they seem, especially not in the life of Ianto Jones.
A/N: What can I say, I was in one of those moods. Also: I apologize for mistakes in timelines. I'm rubbish with numbers, so if Ianto's ages are wrong in terms of what we know in the show, you know why. Although, I don't think it matters in the context.
Please note the warnings before you proceed to read the fic!
You are eight years old.
It is late August and you are holding your father’s hand as if you never want to let go. As you walk down the street to your home, you smile sweetly at the women waving at you from the window on number 17 and you shake Mr. Llewellyn’s hand politely as your father stops to talk to him. You dare not squeeze your father’s hand harder, or pull it, even though you are hungry and thirsty and you just can’t wait for your mother’s warm arms to embrace you.
Your father’s laughter is booming above you, and you flinch involuntarily. He looks down at you, his eyes hard; his smile as fake as his laughter, and you force an equally false smile on your face. Inside you are shivering with fear.
But nobody can know. Nobody can ever know.
You are sixteen years old.
Evan pats your shoulder and gets out of the bed you’ve been sharing for the last hour. The hotel is shabby, and the covers that are pulled tightly around your body smells of other people and other times. He smiles at you as he makes his way to the bathroom, never letting you out of his sight. You smile back at him, albeit weakly. He asks you if you’re okay as he relieves himself and you hear yourself saying yes, of course, before you know you have even opened your mouth. He dresses himself as you are lying still in the bed, staring at the dingy ceiling, trying to count the damp spots instead of listening to the sound of his zipper closing.
He leaves the money on the coffee table by the broken arm chair, and you let out a sigh of relief as he finally closes the door after him. You can’t move, the pain radiating through your whole being. You want to pick up the phone and call someone, the hospital, the police, your mother.
But nobody can know. Nobody can ever know.
You are twenty years old.
Lisa is kissing your cheek as you sit in your mother’s living room. You feel at ease with yourself, and you can’t help but to think it’s only because he isn’t there. Your mother enters the room again, carrying a book under her arm. You smile at her even though you know what it is. You smile at her as she sits next to Lisa and shows her the pictures of your childhood in Newport. You keep on smiling, tensing your muscles so hard it almost hurts.
Later, as you and Lisa make your way into your own bedroom, she puts her hand on your cheek. You don’t mean to, you really don’t, but you recoil from her touch as if her hand was made of scorching coal. You tell her you’re sorry, that you are tired, but she won’t listen to you. She makes you sit on the bed, and then crouches in front of you, clasping your hands in hers. They are smaller, more delicate than your father’s, and slowly you start to relax, burying the memory deep within, where it’s supposed to be.
Then she does the unthinkable, says tell me about him and asking did he hurt you in such a tender way that you actually laugh. You say of course not, and you know she can hear the lie in your voice. You think that you want to tell her, that you want to let it out. Then she pats your knee and gets up to undress. And then you know you never will.
Nobody can know. Nobody can ever know.
You are twenty- two years old.
Lisa’s been gone for four weeks. You have been alone, Jack and Owen only calling in occasionally to check that you still are breathing, even though you know they couldn’t care less. You should be dead. You know that you really, really should have a bullet in your brain, and that you should feel the eternal bliss of not feeling at all. But you’ve spent your time on suspension lying in your bed and not in the morgue.
You wonder why Jack has left you like this, why he couldn’t shown you mercy as you kneeled on the blood stained floor with Lisa’s broken body in your arms, her blood mingling with your tears. You still wish it was your blood too, and as the cog wheel rolls back to reveal the place where she spent her last months, her last hours, you are forced to choke down a sob.
Jack and Gwen watch you, and you take the absolution given to you by a curt nod from Jack. You know he’ll be down later, asking you if you’re okay. You know that the lie will come easily, that Jack will believe you, because, after all, lies are what make up your life. The truth is so painful that you don’t want to burden anyone else with it.
Nobody can know. Nobody can ever know.
You are twenty-four years old.
You tell Tosh on the com that you’re alright, that the scratch isn’t that bad. You let her hear the smile in your voice as you assure her that really, it’s no big deal. Jack has taken the weevil out of the alley, carrying it on his shoulders. You are leaning on the grubby wall, knowing that your suit jacket will have irreparable tears and stains already. You touch your side, hissing slightly when the pressure makes your whole being throb. Tosh is asking you again, and you tell her one last time that you really are okay before de-activating the com unit.
Your head hurts and really, just standing there, leaning on the alley wall makes you exhausted.
You sink down to sit with your back at the wall, waiting for Jack to come and get you. You eye the damage the weevil inflicted on your suit when you suddenly sense a presence beside you. The heavy breathing is not Jack’s and you feel how the familiar fear is pulling at you.
Then a hand falls on your shoulder, and every bad memory you’ve ever had to experience washes through you, like a tidal wave of broken emotions. The hand squeezes, hard, and you realize that this, an unknown hand on your shoulder in a dark alley, this scares you more than any vicious alien that might fall through the Rift.
“What are you doing here, boy,” says the voice the hand belongs to, and you shudder, throat constricting. You dare not turn around, knowing that all you’ll see is that look in the man’s eyes.
Then there are heavy footsteps, and the hand is removed, yanked away from your stiff shoulder. You hear Jack’s voice as he snarls to the man to get out of here, before someone gets hurt, and suddenly, all you can think of is how extremely difficult it is to keep the tears at bay. Jack kneels beside you, taking your face in his hands. You struggle to breathe, as if your lungs have lost their capacity to function with the rest of your body. Then Jack looks you straight in the eye and tells you that it’s okay, you can let it go now, it’s okay to cry.
And then you do, falling into a thousand pieces, like a puzzle which no longer fits together. You can almost see yourself, broken in the grimy puddles on the ground, see how it hurts and hurts and hurts.
Your father is there, in the shadows, as is Lisa, and those men that took you in the dark of the motel rooms. They are there, lingering in the corner of your eye, trying to grab you, take you, touch you, and you sob as you fall into Jack’s arms, begging him to help you, to take you somewhere safe, somewhere where the shadows can’t reach you anymore.
And Jack is there, allowing you to break, letting you fall apart so that he can help you put yourself together again, help you put on the mask, the second face you have been carrying for your whole life.
Because Jack knows.
Jack knows, and somehow, it’s like he has always known.
A/N: Love it, hate it? Please drop a comment before you move on!