Rating: T

Warnings: Blood, badly written fight scenes, Ianto-angst, incredibly crackish premise, author writing under the influence of painkillers.

Word Count: ~4700 (this part), ~18000 overall

Summary: Witches walk the human world in secret, just out of sight and mind. Ianto Jones never reached Lisa Hallett's side in time to save her, but he comes to Torchwood Three with a terrible secret nevertheless.

Disclaimer: I don't hold the copyrights, I didn't create them, and I make no profit from this.

Notes: This is…weird. Even for me. It started as a challenge from my twin ("Hey! You should write a Torchwood/Avatar: the Last Airbender fusion!" "Uh…you really want to put that out there when I'm on Percocet, brother-mine?"), but then rapidly fused with this vague idea of rewriting The Art of Far and Near and became…this. Yeah, I've really got no excuses. Um.

(Story title/chapter titles from Lapis Lazuli by William Butler Yeats.)

Chapter one

All perform their tragic play

Torchwood is almost silent this early in the morning. Even Jack isn't up, locked down in his bunker with whatever waking dreams he chooses to entertain on nights like this. The creatures in the cells aren't stirring yet, and Myfanwy is curled up in his nest—and really, that will teach Ianto to name any creature without being entirely certain of the gender. Myfanwy's size clearly indicates that he's...well, a he.

In his defense, though, Ianto never expected to have to identify dinosaurs on sight by species and gender when Rupert Howarth first recruited him for a research position in the T1 Archives.

Though, knowing Torchwood as he does now, perhaps he should have.

Ianto snorts a little at the whimsy of his thoughts and turns his attention back to the thin black line at his feet. Torchwood is as close to silent as it ever gets, and in the hush the swish and slide of the paintbrush is ridiculously loud.

But the diagram is nearly complete.

It's foolishness, but Ianto glances back towards the bed he just deserted, to the Captain he's betraying with every stroke of his brush on the stone floor of the Hub, with every line of India ink that he lays down knowing it isn't in any way for the betterment of Torchwood, or the rest of the world.

The exact opposite, really, and Ianto knows it, but this is one evil plot he can't—won't—stop.

Not when it bears the price it does.

Three more days, Ianto thinks, sitting back on his heels and surveying what he's accomplished so far. It's bittersweet. The thin black lines curve around the entirety of the Hub, branching off at sharp angles and in sweeping curves. There are images in the curling lines, the crisp bends. A spreading tree here, a bird composed of three lines there, a half-sun and a slitted eye and a falling tumble of Sumerian symbols mixed with the graceful, exact slashes of Enochian.

It's beautiful, precise. Ianto has poured his very soul into the creation of it, and he's never, ever hated any of his creations more.

Shadows warp and writhe, and Ianto glances up in time to see a tendril of darkness detach from the rest and slither towards him.

Even though his skin crawls to do so, Ianto reaches out and lets the snake-sending curl around his wrist as he brings it up to eye level.

"Almost," he tells the witch controlling the beast. "Seventy-two hours, if I can continue working at this pace."

"You had best," the sending hisses, and there's an undertone of dark glee to its voice. "We rescued you from that Hell, Ianto Jones, and have sworn to bring your lady-love back to life. Now you must keep your end of the bargain."

Ianto clenches his free hand so hard that his fingernails dig into his palm and draw blood. "Yes," he acknowledges through gritted teeth, not trusting himself to say more. It is...inconvenient to be bound to another witch like this. Especially this witch. "It will be done, sire."

With a final, mocking hiss, the construct dissolves into shadow once more, vanishing in the weak light. Ianto studies the bleeding gouges in his palm for a moment, then sighs and drops his hand, careful not to get any blood on the array, which would activate it prematurely. The last thing he wants tonight—or today, rather—is to have to explain to the Captain how a portal to a pocket dimension that houses the Five Courts and the Witch-King of the Nevermore managed to open in the middle of the Hub.

He is entirely fed up with this whole sorry business, and if it wasn't for Lisa—

But it is for Lisa, all of it, every betrayal and false smile and the agony of tumbling headlong into an affair with Jack—it's all for her, and a bitter, cynical part of Ianto wonders how their relationship will ever manage to survive, even if the Witch-King keeps his oath and brings her back.

That's hardly certain, either. The other witches Ianto knows all whisper "warlock" behind their ruler's back, and it's a grave thing indeed for them to call their king an oath-breaker, even outside of a formal challenge, but no one ever denies it.

Ianto doesn't. He's a loyal man, but his loyalty must first be earned, and this false king who so easily calls Ianto his subject has done nothing to earn anything but enmity.

Not like Jack. Not like Jack at all.

"Too close, Torchwood Three. They're too close to our people, Ianto Jones. Let us fix that."

Just a whisper of a memory, but it makes Ianto shudder a little nonetheless, mouth tightening in disgust. Witches have existed as long as the rest of humanity, but they've always been one step to the left of the human world, half-hidden in the shadows and the tangle of myths around them. Humans have always been close, and it's never been a problem before. Now—

Biting back a sigh, Ianto pushes himself to his feet and caps the ink bottle, tucking the brush back into its case. After so many years, the motions are automatic, and he passes his hand over the set in a quick sweep. The small diagrams carved into both light with a pale gold glow, shining for three heartbeats before vanishing without so much as a shimmer.

The incomplete circle at Ianto's feet glitters, stray sparks of power dancing over the dark lines and then fading into nothingness again.

Three more days, Ianto reminds himself, carefully not letting himself stray towards the thought of seventy-two hours, four thousand three hundred and twenty minutes, two hundred and fifty-nine thousand two hundred seconds.

Put that way, it's far too little time for anything.

Standing at the foot of the stairs, the last traces of magic fading from the air around him, Ianto hesitates. He has a choice right now. Jack is in the bunker, and if Ianto goes to him he will be greeted with sweet, excited kisses and as much enthusiasm as one human body can contain. They'll doubtless end up shagging in Jack's narrow camp bed, little noises held tight between them because they're both too greedy to let such sounds go very far at all. There will be laughter, too, because there's always laughter with Jack and bed and naked bodies, and just for a minute or two Ianto will forget every bloody fucking thing that's gone wrong with his life recently.

Or he can go home, to the empty apartment that is nevertheless full of Lisa, full of the memories of a Hell of metal and blood and fire. Full of horror and terror and deep, dark desperation when he realizes, yet again, that he didn't make it to her side in time.

There's a way to undo that mistake, and if Ianto must swear his soul away to the devil himself, he'll do so without argument.

All the Witch-King is asking for in return is his honor, his self-respect, his loyalty, and the heart that will surely break when Ianto is forced to look Jack in the eye and face what he's done.

Ianto loves Lisa. He loves her so much that it's like an ocean inside of him, deep and wide. But that ocean has turned sullen and stormy of late, and there's no peace to be found on its shores.

Jack is a calm berth in the storm, and Ianto hates himself for it, loathes himself for allowing Jack Harkness to crawl into his heart and carve out a piece for himself. But he's done it already, and if Ianto knows anything about himself it's that he never has let go of love easily. That's what got him into this bloody mess in the first place.

He glances towards the door leading up to the street, and this should be a hard decision. Ianto needs it to be in a way he hasn't needed anything since those first few hellish hours after One fell.

But it's not.

Nothing has ever been simpler.

Ianto turns away from the outside world, from his tomb-like apartment, from Lisa, and raises a hand. His fingers trace a grand, lazy circle in the air in silver light, then flick through a rapid string of red-gold Enochian just inside the circle's rim. Behind him, the black lines on the floor fade into nothing more than a collection of smudges here and there. Then, without looking back, Ianto heads up the stairs, his steps quick and sure.

When Ianto slides down the ladder, Jack greets him with a bright, happy grin, and Ianto doesn't think any more that night.

He's glad for it.

He's glad for Jack, too, though he'll never, ever say it aloud.

It's still quiet when Ianto peels himself out of Jack's bed, several hours later, but this time the quiet is somehow soft, gentle against his skin as he makes his way up the ladder and then into the kitchen. The ritual of measuring out the coffee beans, grinding them, and then setting up the machine takes little concentration at this point, but Ianto gives it his full attention anyway; good coffee is nothing to take for granted.

(With some amusement, he wonders what the others would do if the coffee maker ever broke; at this point, they've likely got more coffee flowing through their veins than blood.)

He steals the first cup right from the drip and retreats to his desk with it. There's nothing to do, all of his paperwork neatly completed and stacked off to the side, waiting for him to summon up his willpower for the hour-long chore that getting Jack's signature will likely devolve into. Just the thought of it makes Ianto roll his eyes and sink a little deeper into his seat, but it's...fond.

It shouldn't be, but Ianto pushes the thought away and refuses to focus on it.

If nothing else, he's brilliant at denial.

Sixty-seven hours, he very carefully doesn't think.

There's a whisper-hush of bare footsteps behind him, Ianto's only warning before a pair of brawny arms gently close around him and a square jaw settles on his shoulder. There's a smell in the air, a hint of spice that is entirely unique to Jack, and Ianto leans back into it with a breath of what is possibly (likely) relief.

"Good morning, Jack," he murmurs with a small smile, offering his cup.

Jack takes it with a soft chuckle and a fleeting brush of lips against his throat. "Wonderful as always, Ianto, but not the reason for this, you know. Bed was cold without you."

Ianto takes Jack's wrist between his fingertips as the Captain passes his mug back, and lays a careful kiss against his palm. It feels...natural, as it likely shouldn't.

He wonders what it says about "should" and "likely" and "right" that Ianto has spent more nights than not in Jack's bed, these last few weeks. Not much good, probably. And possibly even less that's good about Ianto.

When he turns his head that little but further, Jack is watching him, blue eyes as warm and kind as a summer sky. There's a question in the depths, though, and it's one that Ianto is in no way prepared to face yet.

Where do we go from here? What next? Jack asks silently.

Sixty-seven hours, Ianto answers without words. Sixty-seven hours, and after that I guarantee you won't care a whit what happens to me, Captain.

Ianto looks away from the question, from the thought of later, and is saved by the sudden shriek of the phone, strident and shocking in the quiet. He answers it automatically, a simple "Agent Jones," that won't blow their cover—what tattered, shredded remnants are left of it—if it's only a wrong number.

It's not.

"Detective Greyson, Cardiff Police," the man on the line answers grimly. "We've something that's right up your alley, I think, Agent Jones."

Ianto trades a look with Jack, who's hovering close enough to hear both sides of the conversation. The Captain raises an expectant eyebrow, all the response Ianto needs to return his attention to the phone.

"Send it over," he says, matching the detective's grim-stark tone. "Let's see what you've got."

Behind him, Jack already has his cell out, calling in the team, and Ianto can't quite decide whether he wants to be thankful or glad for this distraction at such a pivotal stage of his own plans.

But he pushes the emotions down, focuses on the job, and most certainly does not linger over the gentle brush of Jack's fingers against his nape as he disengages.

It's harder to catch Jack's interest than Ianto had thought it would be, which actually raises his opinion of the man. Instead of immediately being hired for a quick shag, Jack sends him away, and Ianto has to resort to monitoring the Rift and hoping he can catch something coming through before Jack's team does.

The pteranadon is...unexpected, but useful.

He and Jack end up rolling across the floor of the warehouse, both breathless and a little giddy, and when they finally come to a stop Ianto is fully on top of Jack, their faces only centimeters apart.

It's absolutely the worst time in the world for Ianto's body to remember that he appreciates the male form just as much as the female.

(Perhaps it would be different if Lisa were still alive, if Ianto hadn't spent the last few months grieving for her. Maybe then Ianto would be able to force himself to his feet, make himself walk away from bright-dark blue eyes and messy sandy-brown hair and a brilliant, winded grin. But Lisa Hallett died in Canary Wharf, unable to survive as a half-converted Cyberman when UNIT cut the power, and Ianto, who had cried out to the Witch-King of the Nevermore when the tower began to burn and been shielded by the shadows themselves—well. Ianto can't bring himself to look away, not when he's been so very cold and alone since One fell. Not when Jack is so warm and vivid as he leans up for a kiss across the bare centimeters that separate them.)

Jack kisses him, and Ianto tells himself that it's all to further his schemes, that it's all for Lisa, but it's not. It's for Ianto himself, and after a mere moment of lips and spice and warmth and big, gentle hands sliding into his hair, Ianto can't pretend any longer.

If Lisa were alive—

But she's not, and all the good intentions in the world won't stop Ianto from relishing the feel of it as Jack rolls them over, pins Ianto under him and grins down at him, so bright that it's hard to look right at him.

"I hope," Ianto manages after a breathless moment, "that this won't count as my job interview."

Jack laughs at that, sweet and happy, and this is the man Hartman hated so much? This is the man she raged about whenever she had the breath? He is everything that she tried so hard to be and never was, and Ianto can see why his people are all hand-picked and would follow him right into hell if he ordered it.

The fact that he can inspire such loyalty is terrifying. Ianto can already feel himself falling prey to that blinding charisma, that clear charm, and the worst part is that he doesn't care.

"Think of it as a signing bonus," Jack suggests, grin turning wicked as he slides a hand down over Ianto's cheek to cup his jaw. "I think we can safely say that you got the job when you decided to distract the dinosaur with a chocolate bar. Congratulations, you're a Torchwood agent again. Do you want to die weird, or messy?"

"You say that like you can ever stop being one," Ianto grouses, just before he takes Jack's laughing mouth in another kiss.

There's guilt bubbling in his gut like acid, but Ianto pushes it down and gives himself one night, just one, to forget everything that's gone wrong.

(One night becomes two, and two turns to a week, and a week changes to a month. After that, Ianto stops trying to put a limit on this thing between them, because as long as Jack isn't pushing him away, Ianto will stay right at his side.

Jack will push him away soon enough, after all. He'll have to, because Ianto is a traitor, and anything less than Jack's fury and hurt will be far more than Ianto deserves.)

The others are out, chasing down leads, and Ianto has been left to coordinate from the Hub. They're all otherwise occupied at the moment, though, so he takes advantage of the brief lull to head out in the hopes of picking up lunch for everyone. Chinese, he decides as he pulls on his coat and steps out of the Tourist Office. Everyone likes Chinese, and it's easier to carry than pizzas.

But there's a shifter waiting for him outside, perched on the railing overlooking the water.

Ianto comes to a halt before her, eyes narrowing and fingers automatically twitching towards the slips of paper in his pocket. They're marked with runes and diagrams, a quick defense if he doesn't have time to draw any circles himself, and more than dangerous enough to—

"Peace," she says, raising her hands. "I'm just a messenger."

It's not as comforting as she likely wants it to be. Different kinds of witches rarely mingle outside of the Nevermore—they're all solitary creatures, for the most part, keeping apart from each other if not from humans. Ianto is a caster, and she's a shifter, and while there are many of the latter Ianto is one of the few of the former, and he's learned caution over the years.

"Yes?" he asks politely, even as he palms a fairly explosive diagram and readies the words that will activate it.

Her hands stay where they are, palms out, as if she knows what he's holding. It's likely she does. Even though she's wearing the shape of a small Spanish woman with long black hair, Ianto has no way of knowing what she's changed that he can't see. Many shifters have a fondness for giving themselves animal senses. As it is, with the woman three steps outside of the circle of protection drawn around the Hub, Ianto can't even tell if she's truly a woman, let alone who she really is.

"Azure Court wants an alliance," she says clearly but quietly. "We would treat with you, Lord of the Golden Court, to stand against the King."

Ianto goes still, breath frozen for an endless moment in his lungs.

Behind him, the shadows writhe.

"No," he says, and it doesn't matter that his voice breaks on that simple sound. "Treat against the Witch-King? You're mad."

She takes a gliding step forward, lowering her arms and flipping her hands over in supplication. "He will turn on you, caster. No one can give you what you seek." Clever black eyes regard him, and then full lips pull up into a fox's smile. "Or rather, what you sought. How interesting."

One more step and she will be trapped, powerless, within Ianto's wards.

She won't take it. Ianto already knows it; she's too clever to be caught so easily. All shifters are.

Bonelessly graceful, she prowls closer, always just a little too far away from the wards. "The King is cruel, capricious—"

"As is life," Ianto cuts in, because he knows witches and political maneuvering and just how long she will take to get to the heart of things if he doesn't force her hand. "Your point?"

"Azure Court will follow you, if you make a stand." It's blunt—far more blunt than Ianto expected a shifter to even contemplate being. "We will stand with you. We are willing to call you ally, Ianto Jones. All we ask is your favor if we put forth a candidate for the next King."

It's to be expected, Ianto reminds himself. He's one of the last casters, and the leader of those remaining. Azure Court is large and strong, but no more influential than any of the other Five Courts. They have few allies among the other witches. Ianto's support would change that, though he has little use for political power on his own.

But—

Lisa.

Ianto shakes his head abruptly, a sharp, negative jerk to either side. "No," he repeats. "The Witch-King is my ally. You cannot turn me. Leave, shifter."

She hisses, and there it is, the beast within breaking through to the surface. It's an animal noise, something sharp and predatory and angry, but Ianto keeps his feet planted and his face blank.

But then the shifter laughs, low and furious. Her form ripples like water, the small Spanish woman sliding away to be replaced by a tall, slender black woman with silver hoops in her ears, dark hair cut shorter even than Ianto's. Her eyes are wide and kind, but the look on her face is malicious, and it doesn't sit right.

Evil will never fit on Lisa's face.

It's like a gunshot to the heart, seeing her again, some large-caliber bullet to the chest, which makes a big hole going in and a huge, gaping cavern going out, leaves Ianto entirely breathless and staggering. His hand clenches around the diagram in his pocket, but then wrenches away again.

If the shifter was looking for his weakness, she's found it. Ianto will never be able to harm her while she wears that face.

"How many months dead?" the shifter hisses, and it's Lisa's voice, sweet and low. "How many months out of the realm of the living, Ianto Jones, and she still affects you like this? Look well, because this is the last time you'll see her."

"No." Ianto spits the word at her, breathless and desperate, brought low by the ghost before him. "The King is a binder. He can—"

"But he won't," she counters, and it's merciless. "Onyx Court has not birthed a binder powerful enough to fully resurrect a soul in centuries. What makes you think this one is different? His promise?" She huffs a laugh, and contempt doesn't sit right on her face either, not while it's Lisa's face, Lisa who never looked at anyone with anything but kindness and warmth. "He's—"

A gun goes off, or a car backfires. The shifter whirls and leaps straight upwards, Lisa's image shattering like glass, and a coal-black raven hurtles into the sky and out of sight.

The sudden release of tension is like a little death.

Ianto staggers back another step and trips, falls to the ground right on his arse and can't bring himself to care one whit. His heart is pounding and his head is numb, and there's a soul-deep ache in his chest that won't go away. He closes his eyes, clenches his teeth, and tries to force it back down, but it won't go.

Lisa, he thinks, and all he wants in that moment is her, the real her, with her bright eyes and sweet smile and clever insight.

But Lisa has been dead for months now, ever since the fall of Torchwood One, and the help of a binder is Ianto's only hope of bringing her back.

Only the Witch-King is powerful enough to work such a feat of necromancy, so of course Ianto will follow him.

It's sense.

But then there are footsteps pounding up behind him, a strong hand landing on his shoulder, and Ianto looks up into the face of the one man whose smile can rival Lisa's, whose bright blue eyes have begun to eclipse her warm, dark ones.

"Ianto?" he demands, and there's worry in his face. His gun is at his side, held ready, and Ianto can smell the recent shot. Not a car backfiring, then. "What happened? Did she hurt you?"

They would have seen it over the CCTV cameras, Ianto realizes as Jack pulls him to his feet. If Tosh patched into them because he wasn't answering his comm, they would have seen the whole thing.

The diagram is a guilty weight in his pocket, for all that it's paper and nearly insubstantial. He is suddenly unspeakably glad he had no cause to use it. Of all the ways for his secret to come out, this would have been one of the worst.

"I'm fine," he manages, and it's true for the moment. "She...I think you scared her off." That's true, too, though Ianto isn't entirely certain whether it's good or bad. The witches of the Azure Court don't give up so easily. Not unless they believe they've already made their point.

"What was she?" Tosh asks, four paces behind Jack, her gun drawn but pointed at the ground. "I've never seen an alien change shape like that before."

"Neither have I," Jack agrees, and it's very much not happy. He holsters his gun and curls his fingers around Ianto's thin wrist, tugging him a step closer. "Come on, let's get inside. Tosh, see what you can get from the facial recognition program. It probably will be a waste of time with a creature that can change shape, but—"

"Just in case," Tosh finishes, very much a Torchwood mantra, and offers Ianto a quick smile.

Jack echoes the phrase, grimly concerned, as he leads Ianto back into the tourist office, his body like a wall keeping the rest of the world at bay. "Just in case."

Ianto wants to tell him to save his worry, to hold it for someone who needs it, is worthy of it, but his throat is too tight to speak and he keeps his peace.