2

Ianto forced open his eyes painfully, and when he saw what he had done to his body, closed them again and prayed for oblivion to reclaim his.

He was tied, naked, to his bed.

Every inch of his body that he could see from his awkward angle was covered in bruises and long, shallow cuts that interconnected across his, forming a roadmap of his insanity.

He had struggled for the first hour, had even tried screaming for help at one point, though he knew none would come. He had stuffed his mouth with his filthy handkerchief then, silencing him, making the bile surge in his gut.

Eventually, when it was clear that there was to be no fantasy rescue from the horror Lisant was determined to inflict on him, he tried to submerge his consciousness and detach himself from the horror.

It worked to the extent that Ianto was able to tune out some of the pain – or maybe just to become acclimatised to it – but he could not tune out the indignity, and it fuelled a burning, destructive rage inside him.

Ianto had no idea how long he had been tied to the bed – at least, not in hours.

Time was now measured in his 'sessions' with Lisant.

Three times he had entered the bedroom: each time carrying some object that he quickly learned was to be inserted into him.

Each time, before the violence began, Lisant would rant at him, rising in pitch like an evangelist, working himself up into a state of blind anger that seemed to be required in order for the torture to start.

Always, the focus of his rants was what he called his 'education', the lessons he would learn before he could safely release him and put him to work.

Put him to work.

As a prostitute.

As a whore.

He heard the bedroom door open and squeezed his eyes tightly shut, praying that the man entering the room would be the Inn Keeper or some other saviour, but he knew immediately from the ragged, eager breathing that all was lost.

When he dared to look, he saw Lisant, a dark silhouette, naked and leering.

Clutching a horse whip in his right hand.

"Time to learn."

.

.

.

.

Ianto surged from the bed, gasping like he was drowning and Jack grabbed for him in the dark, crooning and struggling to keep him from falling from the bed.

"Easy, easy" Jack soothed, rubbing his mate's shoulders as Ianto continued to hyperventilate in the darkened room.

"Hush, you'll wake the baby" Jack whispered, finally binging Ianto's focus back to him and he was able to pull Ianto into a clutch.

"Jack" Ianto sighed like a mantra, over and over again as he nuzzled against his neck, breathing him in and once again Jack wished he knew how to time travel for one more chance to kill that son of a whore.

In the light of day Ianto would rise as if nothing had happened, talking and laughing with Jack as he lifted their son to his breast.

Still.

Jack wondered.

Did Ianto remember these dreams?

These nightmares that threatened to steal his life force from his very body?

Jack placed his mouth over Ianto's and kissed him with as much might and powerful love as he could.

The dawn would come.

Ianto would wake.

Lisant would never hurt him again.

But for in his dreams.

Dawn was so far way.