Title: Himalaya
By: lower-case-me
Pairing: Reference to Ianto/Lisa & very oblique reference to Ianto/Jack
Rating: PG
Spoilers: The Sound of Drums
Explanatory and spoilery note: Saxon mentioned that he sent TW on a wild goose chase...
Summary: Ianto, in the mountains.

***

Ianto liked the Himalaya. Owen complained constantly about the cold, the wind, blisters, the food, his sleeping bag and mat, the relentless cheerfulness of the local guides and porters, the state of the paths (when there were paths), and the isolation. Tosh's nose was buried firmly in satellite uplinks and tracking devices, and Gwen was just cold, miserable and exhausted. They all were, but Ianto found that physical tiredness suited him.

Putting one foot in front of the other was simple, a difficult but manageable task on the steep mountain tracks. If he needed to speak, he spoke to the quick, smiling Sherpas, and if he needed to think, he thought about the space that opened up alongside the path. It wasn't difficult to imagine the cold, thin, clean wind seeping into his mind, when he as all the way up here so exposed, so far into it.

And he could sleep, thank god. Every night, the ease with which it came left him surprised. Whether it was the exertion, the clean air, or the distance from the Hub, every night it came like a sigh of relief.

Tosh spent an hour before bed trying to get an uplink to the internet. She wanted the news, but Ianto found himself drifting away, finding reasons not to hear the election result. He didn't want the contact. The UK, London, Torchwood. It seemed to Ianto like the unwelcome hand of a lover who'd betrayed him. He wanted to be safe from that.

Tonight, like every night, Ianto delivered two hot water bottles to the women's tent, smiled politely at the cooing gratitude from inside, and crawled into the one he shared with Owen. That low grumbling monologue didn't even pause when he handed Owen his warm bottle, carefully encased in a woolly sock for insulation.
'This isn't he countryside, this is a fucking joke. Beyond a fucking joke. Fucking freezing. Shit.'
Ianto carefully took off his boots and outer layers and got himself comfortable in his sleeping bag. The moment he rolled onto his side, always facing the tent wall, Owen shifted over and fitted himself against his back. 'Jesus H Christ I feel like I'm lying on every bloody rock in the mountains. All the sharp ones anyway.' By morning, he'd be mostly lying on the broad, warm bulk of Ianto, who didn't really mind.

Coffee tasted better in the mountains, and although the Sherpas still preferred tea, they were prepared to admit that Ianto could do things with instant coffee that the freeze drier had never thought of.

He stood on a rough prow of grey rock looking down the valley, enjoying the first cup of the day. Gwen, Owen and Tosh were drinking theirs halfway between sleeping bags and down jackets. One of the Sherpa, a young man with perfect English and dazzling white teeth that reminded Ianto of Jack, was explaining the prayer flags to him.
'Don't they get shredded by the wind?'
'Yes. The flags decay, and the prayers written on them-' Lhakpa gestured to the open air. Ianto nodded, understanding. It was a beautiful idea, and the criss-crossing strings of bright flags flapped and pulled in the wind. Little pieces of yellow and red and green, in a world of towering greys and the blue above. What was written on them, words to be spoken to the sky, Ianto couldn't guess.

The ice wind buffeted him, making him roll on his toes. His hands cupped the mug protectively, keeping the warmth safe inside. Lisa would have liked it here. She would have relished the sense of space, and known that she could step from one peak to the next in a single leap. In some places up here, they gave their dead to the eagles, to take into the air. She would have liked that too. Ianto put one foot in front of the other on the high grey paths, winding his way like a mortal, and that was alright.

***