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Hidden Truths

Hi! Part three of what's currently a five part series. Enjoy! Part…

Hidden Truths; a Ianto Jones Fan Journal

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Hi! Part three of what's currently a five part series. Enjoy!

Part one is here.
Part two is here.

Make your choice. Are you ready to be strong?

It took two days before Gwen dared let anyone from Torchwood in.

That first day, after all but throwing Owen out, she made soup as she had promised—vegetable, to be on the safe side—and made Ianto eat as much as he could take. After that he slept, for a while, until he came screaming awake from a nightmare he couldn’t or wouldn’t describe to her.

Three hours of watching him pace wore Gwen down, and she found herself snapping at him. At that point she forcibly dragged him back to the bedroom and made him take off his shirt so she could check his bruises.

“You were almost right,” she said eventually.

“Almost,” he repeated, trying not to cringe at her touch. Gwen was being as careful and as gentle as she could, but the feel of someone else’s hand on his skin…

“It’s bruises. But deep, Ianto. Do you have a first aid kit?”

“In the bathroom.” He started to get up to fetch it, but her hand on his shoulder stopped him.

“I’ll get it. Where?”

“Under the sink.”

She came back a moment later, studying the contents; like everything else Ianto touched, it was perfectly organized and sorted. After a moment, she pulled out a tube of ointment.

“I’m sorry, Ianto,” she said, kneeling on the bed behind him. “This won’t be fun.”

“Do it,” he muttered, hands clenched on the duvet.

Gwen ignored his flinches as she smoothed the cream over the bruises, avoiding the places where the skin was broken; nail tracks, from the look of it. She didn’t mention them, only worked as fast as she could and let him up.

“Here…” He took the kit from her, packing it neatly away again.

“Thanks. That feel ok?”

“You don’t have to stay.” His back was turned to her, and she allowed herself the luxury of making a face at him. “I don’t need help.”

“It makes me feel better,” she called after him. “At least here you’re not picking up our mess.”

“I should be in work,” he muttered, distractedly.

“No, you shouldn’t! That’s the last thing you need, Ianto.”

He came back out of the bathroom, glaring at her defiantly. The image was slightly ruined by the open shirt hanging from his shoulders.

Gwen realised abruptly that this was as close to naked as she’d ever seen him, and promptly forced her mind in other directions.

“I can work,” he insisted.

“Can you? What if Tosh walks past when you’re not expecting? What if Owen yells?” She rose from the bed, wandering towards him—not crowding, exactly, but getting closer. “What if Jack comes up behind you, and touches your back…”

The Welsh expletive startled her and she stepped back quickly, giving him room to move past her. For a long moment she didn’t move, not trusting herself; when she did turn, Ianto was standing at the window, staring blankly out.

“I’m sorry,” she said, taking a few careful steps forward. “That was unforgivable.”

“I forgive you.” Ianto’s voice was so distant, and she shivered.

Turning, he caught her eye and said ruefully, “ ’Dwi wedi torri.” I’m broken.

“No, Ianto,” she insisted, moving to stand beside him. He didn’t react, letting her take his hand. “You’re just injured, that’s all. It’ll heal.”

“Will it?” His tone was almost hopeful, and she nodded firmly.

“It will.”

Ianto woke twice that night, sobbing, crying in Welsh and English. The second time, Gwen lay down with him; oddly, that seemed to comfort him, and he slept without dreams until morning.

The second day passed much the same as the first, but with less eating and more pacing; Gwen ignored it as much as she could, half-watching S4C…the only channel she could tune in…and letting the familiar sounds of Welsh lull her into a half doze.

Tosh came by that evening. Gwen was walking a tightrope; Ianto needed to be around people, and he was angry at Owen and scared of Jack. She was worried about his reaction to a woman, but apart from keeping a greater distance than usual between them he didn’t seem to mind.

Tosh brought takeaway in one hand and real groceries in the other; she talked lightly about Myfanwy and their latest investigations and how quiet it was without them. She added, half-jokingly, that Owen had lost his keyboard under the mess that afternoon and was afraid to go looking for it, and Jack had taken to shooting any piece of rubbish that looked like it might be thinking about moving. Ianto listened, and smiled a bit, but he didn’t volunteer anything and Tosh left pretty much as soon as the food was gone.

Buoyed by the partial success and a night with only one nightmare, Gwen coaxed Ianto outside the next day for some shopping. That was a complete disaster; though she kept them well away from Torchwood and stayed right by his side the whole time, Ianto couldn’t cope with it and they had to abandon the plan and head back to the flat.

By this stage Gwen was desperate to get out, even just for a little bit. Never one to sit still, the enforced stay in the flat was wearing on her. Rhys had called both evenings, and though there wasn’t a trace of resentment in his voice the guilt added to her burden.

The next day, the fourth since Ianto had first broken down, Owen came back, announcing from the door that he’d just come to check on Gwen’s wound to make sure it was healing. Ianto hadn’t left the bedroom that morning and didn’t now; Gwen risked closing the door, giving them the semblance of privacy.

Owen studied her for a moment, and she thought, unsettled, that he might try to hug her. From Jack she’d have accepted it; Jack flirted as he breathed but it didn’t mean anything. But Owen was different, and she couldn’t accept his touch as easily.

“Come here,” he said abruptly, turning away. “Lift your shirt, let me see.”

Gwen did so, automatically making a face as she did so; she was wearing one of Ianto’s shirts. She hadn’t even tried to touch the woman’s clothes in his wardrobe.

Owen’s hand on her side made her jump, and she glanced down at the top of his head.

“How’re you doing?” he asked absently.


“They say that’s the best policy.” He considered for a moment before adding, “Unless it’s about sex.”

“I’m going insane.”

His fingers faltered for a moment. “Jack’s worried about you. Both, but you.”



“I just need to get out of here for a bit. We went down the shops yesterday, until he panicked.”

“Why? What triggered it?”

“We walked past a hot dog cart. The meat…” she shrugged.

“I’d stay,” Owen offered, sitting back to let her pull down the shirt.

“No. He won’t talk to you.”

Owen grimaced. “Look…call us if you need anything, yeah? Anything. Anyway we can help.”

“Some clean clothes’d be nice,” Gwen muttered. “Not from you,” she added sharply, seeing the look on his face. “Ask Tosh.”

“Spoilsport,” he said amiably. “Listen…” and he was all business now. “Is Ianto injured? Is there something…”

She shook her head. “Bruises. I’m on it.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah. I’m watching him.”

She wasn’t sure, of course; Ianto let her see his back, his chest, but nothing else, no matter how she begged and pleaded. The way he’d been walking the first couple of days, his legs had to be bruised, and she was sure she’d seen blood on his trousers; but he was immovable on the subject. He was not letting her check.

Gwen left it alone, knowing better than to push; Ianto was too stubborn for that to work.

Three nightmares that night had her edgy by morning; her presence hadn’t calmed Ianto, and he’d thrashed hard enough to tear some of the cuts on his back open. Guessing that this was not the day to repeat the ‘going outside’ experiment, Gwen made him coffee—Tosh had thoughtfully included decaff—and settled down to watch Pobl y Cwm.

Ianto had made it into the living room this morning; he was flicking edgily through a newspaper when something occurred to Gwen. “Ianto,” she said carefully, turning down the TV, “We’ve been here nearly a week and no one’s called. Don’t your family call you?”

“There’s no one to call.” Ianto’s gaze was firmly on the paper. “Lisa—Lisa had family. I talk to them, sometimes.” He smiled ruefully. “They think she died in London.”

Gwen cursed mentally. “I’m sorry, Ianto.”

“Sorry she died, or sorry you asked?” There was something that might have been humour in his tone.

“Both,” Gwen answered softly. “Both.”

Ianto looked up, finally, meeting her gaze. “I love her. I love her now, still.”

“Yeah. It never goes away, not the love. The pain will, though.”

“Pain? There isn’t…Rydw i’n gwag, Gwen. Nothing inside.” I’m empty, Gwen…

Gwen shook her head, slipping out of her seat to kneel beside him. “It feels like that, I know, but…”

“How do you know?” He shoved violently out of the chair, all but knocking her over as he pushed past. “You can’t know! You didn’t lose…Rhys, you never lost Rhys!”

“No,” Gwen agreed, rising to her feet but making no move to come after him. “I’ve never lost anyone, thank god.”

“You don’t know!” Ianto was screaming now, control gone, tears pouring down his face. “How it feels! How it…felt…oh god, she was on me, she wouldn’t…it hurt so much, in my hands and my back and my dick…all just pain, red, red on the floor and on her…”

He sank to his knees, weeping. Gwen stood her ground, aching for him, wanting desperately to turn away and leave, grant him some dignity at least.

“It was…she made me enjoy it,” Ianto whispered, and now Gwen moved, dropping to her knees beside him and gathering him into her lap. “Roeddwn i wedi mwynhau e. God help me, I enjoyed it.” I enjoyed it…

Gwen sat, tears streaming down her face, and held him. It was all she could do.

X-posted. Sorry.
  • Poor Ianto! I want to hug him.
    Look forward to reading the next two parts.
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