Title: Bella Ciao
By: lower-case-me
Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Spoilerific, songfic
Spoilers: Up to and including ep 13 - End of Days
Note: The song here is Hillcrest Mine, written by James Keelaghan. For reference, I am not and have never been a member of the C么r Cochion Caerdydd.
Summary: Set immediately post End of Days. I didn't like seeing downtroddenworker!Ianto, so...

***

In the chaos while Owen and Tosh were both trying to question Gwen about what had happened to the hub and where the hell Jack was, Ianto was watching the CCTV footage recorded only minutes ago. There was a cold feeling in the bottom of his stomach. It settled there like it intended to stay, because the first thing Ianto had noticed wasn't the papers all over the floor, but the empty place where the blue jar containing the hand had been. It was important to Jack, so Ianto took care to look after it. Even if he really didn't know what it meant.

He sat perfectly still and watched the answers to all his questions unfold on screen. Just a minute, all it took to make everything clear. Very clear, and very cold. Only half aware of what he was doing, Ianto licked his lips, trying to taste Jack there, but coffee had washed away all trace of him.

Owen was talking about tracking devices and guns and the SUV.
'That won't be necessary' Ianto said, sounding so clam he was dead.
'What the fuck do you-'
'Jack left voluntarily. Watch.'

Flick the footage back five minutes and see it all again. See the flurry of papers, see the blue box- Tardis, the files in London said- materialise, see the head poke out the door at a jaunty angle. Even on CCTV, the thin man- The Doctor- has an air of barely contained energy and joy. You can see straight away why Jack loves him. He's worth loving. Watch Jack's lips move as he asks the question and The Doctor replies. And Jack bounds across the room towards him with the same overflowing enthusiasm. He stops only for the hand, nothing else, and doesn't even look back.

Ianto let the tape run until Gwen's image appeared again and then shut down the video feed. He got up and started to pick the papers and the junk off the floor, putting them back where they were supposed to be.
'Ianto, who-' Gwen stared, staring.
'It's what he wanted.' Who he wanted, Ianto thought, dully. 'He's not coming back.'
'But how-'
'He was waiting. For this. It's why he was here, on the rift. Waiting.'

The missing pieces of the Jack puzzle fell neatly into place. Ianto understood. But it didn't matter. What mattered was cleaning the mess off the floor.

He slept in Jack's bed that night, a deep dreamless sleep. The numbness was like a drug that replaced pain with a heavy greyness. A grey wool blanket to sleep under, Ianto thought, pulling one over his shoulder and letting consciousness go.

It was easy. He hadn't drifted off this easily in years. As he drifted off, Ianto thought My insomnia is broken. And smiled, and slept.

He didn't feel guilty for betraying Jack and helping unleash a monster on Cardiff. He didn't feel resentment towards Gwen, for being the one allowed to sit by Jack and wake him with a kiss, or anger at Owen for being such a prick. He didn't even feel angry at Jack for leaving without saying goodbye. He didn't feel relief that Jack was alive or happy that the world hadn't ended. He didn't care that Tosh had missed her grandfather's birthday or that Rhys was alright. He'd seen Lisa and it didn't matter. He had known as he'd been clearing up the scattered papers that this was what it was like not to give a damn about anything. It didn't feel good. It didn't feel bad. It felt empty.

In the morning he got up, showered and shaved, and made the coffee. Coffee boy, Ianto thought. Not the tea boy. Owen was wrong about that, even if he was prefectly right about everything else. So he made the coffee, opened up the tourist desk, sorted the mail, booted up the computer system. Placed a newswire story about strange cloud formations over Cardiff. Made sure there was no home movie footage of the demon floating around on the internet. Rang Torchwood's tame journalist at the South Wales Echo and had a word about hallucingenic fungus spores becoming more common due to climate change. People should drive their cars less and insulate their homes to reduce carbon emissions.

He fed the pterodactyl, and for the first time since Brynblaidd, didn't feel his stomach churn at the sight of raw meat.

The others came in, took their mugs, sat down at their workstations. Now and again, someone's glance would flick up to Jack's office as if they thought he'd be standing there. Ianto had agreed to give Jack a month to come back before they informed Torchwood One of his disappearance, because it was easier than telling them that he wasn't coming back, over and over again.

At lunchtime, before picking up the takeaway, Ianto went home and neatly packed some clothes into a bag. Looking around his bedroom, there was nothing else he needed, so he left. But he did take the orchid Lisa's mum had given him for his birthday last year. He liked it. And back at the hub, the pot fitted nicely on the reception desk. That was all.

That night, late, when Ianto's work was done and so was Jack's, he pulled the grey blanket over himself and smelled the captain still there. It was good, comforting. As good as having Jack right there- no, better, because the blanket demanded nothing. Not coffee, not paperwork, not kisses or comfort. The single bed was much more comfortable without a second body in it. Ianto was warm. He had plenty of space. The only problem was that his face was wet and he didn't know why.

A week later, Ianto was getting the lunches, picking up the drycleaning, and running a handful of other errands in the city centre. It had been a long week, really two weeks on top of each other. A week of Ianto's work and a week of Jack's. He washed out the coffee mugs and signed the captain's name on a stack of documents he'd written himself. Some things were difficult, like having the coffee ready for the people coming back in from fieldwork when he was one of those people, but Ianto worked efficiently and quickly, cutting out the delays and downtime out as much as possible.

Life would be slightly easier if Owen would shut the fuck up with the tea-boy comments and stop telling him not to get too comfortable in Jack's office (even though he took Jack's work to his own desk rather than doing it on the spot, a fact Ianto couldn't be bothered pointing out). Somewhere in the back of his mind, it was clear that Owen needed to feel like someone was more pathetic than he was. Once, Ianto had pitied him for being such a sad bastard and not taken any notice. But Owen had been right about Ianto being Jack's part-time fuck.

He'd been right. Ianto loved Jack. Of that he was sure. Ianto was someone who loved deeply and completely, he knew that about himself as a plain truth, and he understood with equal clarity that he loved Jack. And Jack did not love him. And Jack was gone, back to the one he did love.

Ianto wasn't angry. Jack had been kind to him, making him believe he was needed and wanted. It was a gesture given out of convenience and of necessity, but kindly done. Leaving without saying goodbye had hurt Ianto, but that was Ianto's fault, not Jack's. Ianto had allowed himself a flight of fancy and believed the gentle lies. That pleasure had to be paid for. He was the one who felt, and the consequences of those feelings were his alone.

Coming down from the pasty shop in the Hayes, taking care to keep the warm paper bag out of the rain, Ianto tripped. Stupid. Clumsy. Jack would never- even Owen would never trip over his own feet. Still on his knees, Ianto picked up the pasty bag and found he'd squashed them.

In the busy pedestrian road between the arcades and the black iron fence of the church, the rain soaked through his trousers at the knee. It would leave a muddy stain, Ianto knew. Someone bumped his shoulder as they passed. People stepped around him, because he was in the way.

Ianto grabbed hold of the fence. The wet pavers weren't slippery, but Ianto needed the support, or reassurance, or something. The paint was peeling and flaking off, he could feel it under his fingers. Water ran down the railing, running rusty over his knuckles. Ianto rested his head against the cold bars anyway, ignoring the rain.

He closed his eyes and behind them, people he knew pushed past, trying desperately to get out of the building. Ianto lurched as someone hit his shoulder and kept running. He grabbed hold of a stair railing and struggled upstairs against the flood, like a salmon trying to swim up a waterfall. For Lisa, Ianto fought his way through the hysterical crowd. Back into Torchwood One, towards the army of cybermen.

When he opened his eyes, he was back in Cardiff in the pouring winter rain. Another flashback. Ianto shook his head, sending water drops flying. His knees started to hurt, so he pulled himself back onto his feet.

Back up towards the castle, a group of people had amassed against the fence. Rain or no rain. Cochion, Ianto thought. Red Choir. It had been a long time since he'd heard Welsh spoken, even inside his own head. He stayed where he was, still hanging on to the iron rail, and laughed. They were singing a song he knew.

Down in the mines of the Crowsnest Pass
It's the men that die in labour
Sweating coal from the womb of the pit
It's the smell of life they savour.

He remembered four-year-old Ianto on his grandfather's shoulders, and sang with them.

And in that mine, young man, you'll find
A wealth of broken dreams --
As long and as dark and as black and as wide
As the coal in the Hillcrest seam.

And they say you don't go, say you don't go down in the Hillcrest Mine,
And they say you don't go, say you don't go down in the Hillcrest Mine,
'Cause it's one short step, you might leave this world behind,
And they say you don't go, say you don't go down in the Hillcrest Mine.

It was dark under the ground, Ianto knew that very well. Every day, he took the lift down into that dark. He sang louder, using his lungs in a way he'd almost forgotten.

I've heard it whispered in the light of dawn
That mountain sometimes moves.
That bodes ill for the morning shift
And you know what you're gonna lose.
Don't go, my son, where the deep coal runs. Turn your back to the mine on the hill
'Cause if the dust and the dark and the gas don't getcha,
Then the goons and the bosses will.

And they say you don't go, say you don't go down in the Hillcrest Mine,
And they say you don't go, say you don't go down in the Hillcrest Mine,
'Cause it's one short step, you might leave this world behind,
And they say you don't go, say you don't go down in the Hillcrest Mine.

It had been a relief, at first, to find he was good at his job at Torchwood London. He could do the work, oh yes, very well, wear the clothes and flatten his accent enough that nobody laughed too much. If he could do that, he knew he'd never have to go back to a piss-poor village soaked in equal parts grey religion and cheap lager. That was the start of it, maybe, that fear. Be useful, Ianto, be clever and quick and oh so efficient, and you'll be needed. If you're needed, you'll be safe. Someone at Torchwood One, he'd long ago forgotten who, had once told him that the green hills of Wales must have been a beautiful place to grow up. Ianto had smiled and said something suitable. Privately he was thinking yes, I found the gang violence and heroin addicts particularly scenic.

It was only later that he realised that he'd brought more with him than Welsh vowels.

Later still when he realised he hated the taste of the water in London, and nobody ever sang as they walked along the street.

Well son, I'm gonna open up
I'm gonna have my say
You'll get no peace from the Hillcrest Mine
'Cept the peace of an early grave
Go out and work for the workers' rights
Go work for the workers' needs
Don't stay down here to toil for your buck
To be a tool for the owner's greed

And they say you don't go, say you don't go down in the Hillcrest Mine,
And they say you don't go, say you don't go down in the Hillcrest Mine,
'Cause it's one short step, you might leave this world behind,
And they say you don't go, say you don't go down in the Hillcrest Mine.

Ianto had always imagined that his grandfather, who'd never called any man Sir in all his 73 years, would have been ashamed of him- Ianto the tea boy, Ianto the cleaner of other people's shit. He pictured them sometimes, generations of hard-faced men and women from the valleys, strong and fiercely independent and every one of them ashamed of him in his expensive business suit. Maybe he'd been wrong. He went down there every day for the morning shift, under the mountain that sometimes moved. And he did it knowing that there was no peace to be had from Torchwood.

It could be that the old man would have been proud of his grandson. He would like that Ianto was polite, and neat, and quick-witted. And perhaps he'd understand what it was to feel like you only existed to work in the blackness while the sun and the rain beat down on the surface above. The miners had found dignity and pride down there somewhere. Maybe Ianto could too.

His gran would be pleased, too, to know that more than 20 years after they'd taken the little boy with them down to the pickets, Ianto remembered the words to Bella Ciao in the original Italian. Of course he did. It was a happy song of defiance and courage, and he'd loved it as a baby before he'd even understood the words. He'd sung it for Lisa, and would have sung it for their children.

After the song, Ianto walked back to the hub. His face was wet, but that wasn't a problem. He sang, quietly but clearly, as he walked. Ianto tested his memory and found The World Turned Upside-Down intact, and most of I dreamed I saw Joe Hill last night. As he took the stairs back into the dark underground, Ianto wolfed down his pasty. It'd been too long since he'd cared enough to taste anything.

He was not sure, exactly, who he was now that he was awake. The rest of his mind was a mess of guilt and anger, grief and humiliation. Ianto could count the things he knew- really knew in his bones- on the fingers of one hand. One, he loved Lisa and she had loved him in return. That was important. He had been loved. Two, Lisa was dead. Three, he was good at his job. It was difficult and complicated but he did it well. Four, he loved Jack and Jack did not love him. Five, he was still here and still alive. If he added an extra finger, he would say that he could remember all the words to Bella Ciao. Maybe that was important too. It was something, a part of Ianto Jones that hadn't been determined by trauma.

Six. Not too bad, he thought. Dylan Thomas had only had three. "One, I am a Welshman; two, I am a drunkard; three, I am a lover of the human race, especially women."

'Oi, this is cold. And squished' Owen looked up from his pasty like a spoiled child.
'We have a microwave. I suggest you apply your famous technical skills and use it.' Owen grumbled about the quality of service at Torchwood these days and Ianto replied that yes, he was right, for example the alien autopsy reports for the last month hadn't been submitted yet.

That night, Ianto Jones slept in his own bed.

***