Title: Breaking
By: bittersweet
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Warning: very brief meintions of D/s
Summary: Its very much a downer (serves me right for listening to placebo while writing) but I tried to give a hopeful-ish ending and I hope you like it.
Disclaimer: Hey… BBC? Bring it on. I'm ready for you.

***

There was before, and there was after. The two were very similar. This is because the team at Torchwood were professionals.

They had a job to do, a job as guardians to a rift in space and time that didn't stop for such trivial flickers in the infinite turning of the universe.

They knew how to pretend to be coping, and pretend so well they sometimes fooled themselves.

But they couldn't escape the fact that they were living in a city that held memories like a minefield. They were working in a Hub that had too many chairs, too many desks, too many coffee mugs lying in the sink. Too many empty spaces, and too much silence.

They were professionals. But every now and again, they broke.

For Gwen it came as flood of tears, uncontrollable and with no end in sight. It was the smallest things that set her off. A pen. A post-it with familiar handwriting found under a desk. A borrowed shoe. Usually she could hold back, hold on until she could lock herself in a toilet cubicle or make it home to Rhys.

Rhys was her rock. He would hold her without any need for explanation, and she would bury her face in his chest and press hard against him, trying to envelop herself in the essence of him, his calm solid strength. Later they would talk. He didn't always say the right thing, but somehow the way he tried so hard made it all alright. Very occasionally, though, it was not enough. How could he understand fully when there was so much he didn't know?

At these other times there was Jack, who offered an embrace that was just as strong and fiercer, leaving her short of breath but invigorated and defiant. He drove away the helplessness. For the very worst times there was Ianto, who knew just how to make her feel safe, cradling her in his arms and murmuring welsh lullabies, looking at her with those old eyes in that young face. His graceful, limitless grief was beautiful, reminding her that what she felt was not completely wrong.

Still, no matter who held her or how, the tears wouldn't stop once they had begun. They flowed until she had no more to spill, and even then it was only exhaustion that could silence the dry sobs.

For Jack it came as anger. An indiscriminate, all consuming fury directed at whomever or whatever was closest. A red mist across his eyes… that old cliché was so ridiculously apt for the situation. Suddenly everything became infuriating. He would start yelling, angry at Gwen for running away when he lost control, angry at Ianto for staying and trying to talk him out of it.

He lashed out. He had always communicated through touch, constantly needing physical contact, a tangible expression of emotion. Now he was hurting and confused, so he sent it all straight back out onto whichever small piece of the world he happened to be inhabiting at the time – most often his office, and those damned memory-filled shelves.

It was the injustice that bothered him. This wasn't right, it wasn't fair…he needed to hold something accountable, to punish and destroy. He held the whole universe accountable. Everything could just go to hell. He hated that he had been helpless, he hated that he had been too late, he hated that it was unchangeable, he hated that there was no appeal. He hated that every waking moment offered some reminder of just how wrong the world was now.

He hated the things he did when the red mist came down.

For Ianto it came as a desire for physical pain, and Jack was usually there to oblige. Ianto knew it was fucked up, but he didn't care. After all, he didn't feel it. Not really. He was so numb.

When he saw a black mood coming - the little signs that told him Jack was going to lose it - Ianto sent Gwen home and went straight to him. Into the office, locking the door, keeping Jack away from the Hub and from the Cardiff streets. There was no sense in letting it be messier than it had to be, or letting the innocent get hurt. Ianto knew how to keep things contained – that was his job.

He would talk, saying things he knew Jack didn't want to hear, but ones that he needed to hear. Sometimes he said that it would all be alright. Sometimes he said he was sorry, it should have been him. Sometimes he said that it was no ones fault; there was nothing they could have done, nothing Jack could have done. He would talk, not hesitating or flinching as heavy shapes flew past his ear and more delicate objects smashed against the wall and decorated the floor with shards of shining alien metal.

Jack didn't mean to do it, Ianto knew that. Sometimes he wondered how the older man never realised Ianto wanted to be hit. When he tasted blood it was good…when he couldn't get back on his feet it was better. Anything to stop thinking about the two empty mugs.

Every now and again they broke, but it was never long before they rebuilt each other. They were professionals, and knew how to pretend.

Tearful apologies were made and immediate forgiveness granted. Work hours were re-adjusted, allowing Gwen to go home at something resembling a normal time. The broken glass was cleared away and the bloodstains covered. Jack took the last of his things from the hatch and put them in Ianto's bedroom, in a place that had been set aside for them a long time ago.

Time passed, and the lapses in control became few and far between. After all, they had a job to do. What's more, they had each other, and a new appreciation of exactly how precious that was.

The line between pretence and truth shifted, blurred and then disappeared entirely. They healed, and they healed together.

But it was never quite the same without Owen and Tosh.

***