Memento Mori - part two
Feb. 5th, 2011 09:47 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
snarklyboojumLink to previous part.
You hiss through your teeth as the needle cuts a little deeper than it should, blood blossoming out of the small wound and running down your leg. It’s bleeding far more than it should, which makes you a little queasy.
Maybe you should have another drink to take the edge off. How many have you had so far? You don’t feel drunk, but the truly drunk rarely do. Too much alcohol thins the blood, anyway, and that would make this even more unbearable than otherwise, wouldn’t it?
A tinny voice comes from the land-line receiver next to your hip on the bed. You cradle it against your shoulder and eye the mini bar. “Who is this?”
The man on the other end sighs and recites the proper string of numbers and letters to secure a line for Torchwood. The agent could be using outdated codes to get you to talk, but really, what would be the point?
You catch the writing low on your left hand out of the corner of your eye. Good advice, you think, and dip the bit of string into the ink one more time.
The agent invites you to pick up the conversation where you left off, discussing your work at Torchwood One. “It was an important study. Too much retcon is just as problematic as too little. The memory loss was easier to explain if it was just one or two specific events as opposed to entire days gone missing. It’s all about establishing acceptable levels of brain damage.
“I know. I can’t believe I said that sentence with a straight face, either.” You roll your eyes. “Well, you’ll just have to take my word for it – no smirk in sight.”
You’re surprised at how easy it is to joke with the agent; most days the anxiety is so thick in your throat that it’s hard to breathe. If you let your thoughts drift back to your last complete memory - and you try not to, you really do – you can actually feel the blast of heat against your skin that gave you your own unique brand of brain damage. The exploding vats of B67 had lifted you off your feet and onto Lisa’s machine, knocking it loose from the floor. The sound of your skull caving in was louder than the screaming, but only just. There was fire, and pain, and darkness…and then it fades into nothing, lost in your mind forever.
* * *
Ianto comes back to himself all at once, inhaling deeply the strange, musky scent of the bed. There’s a puddle of drool adhering his cheek to the pillowcase that he scrubs away with clumsy hands.
The room around him is…well, it’s just a room, nothing special about it. Just an anonymous room with bad lighting, a soft mattress, and a ladder hanging inexplicably from the ceiling. It feels like the first time he’s been there but he’s not sure - this could be his bedroom in his empty house, for all he knows. But no, there’s nothing recognizable except a messenger bag and pile of dirty clothes thrown in a corner. The nightstand’s drawers are empty except for --
Lube. Lots and lots of lube. And several items only recognizable from late night window-shopping in Soho. The owner of this drawer obviously has no trouble getting a phone line outside or to anywhere else, for that matter. So definitely not his bedroom, then.
It’s only when the sound of running water stops that he notices the open door on his right. He can only see the edge of a sink and the toilet from where he lays on the bed, though the screech of shower curtains pulling back is unmistakable. A wave of guilt hits him and he realizes the scenario has a distinct ‘morning after’ feel to it.
Oh god.
Ianto’s just about to make a break for the ladder when a man steps from the bathroom in a cloud of steam and nudity, toweling himself off as he goes. His complete lack of modesty (and tan lines, not that Ianto was looking) leads to the impression that discovering a strange man cowering under his blankets is not necessarily something out of the ordinary.
It is at this point that Ianto realizes he’s not wearing any pajamas. And that there’s a lot more of him to cower than usual, certain parts of his anatomy taking a keen interest in unfolding events.
Oh, god!
“Morning, sunshine!” the man calls, throwing the wet towel in the corner with Ianto’s clothes. He stands there grinning, very naked hands planted on very naked hips. Ianto attempts to burrow through the mattress using only his elbows. His eyes, enormous and round, only just peek out from under the blanket. No matter how many times he blinks they are both still very, very naked.
The man breaks eye contact first, great booming laughter bending him nearly double. The sound is hardly reassuring, though the longer it goes on the less anxious Ianto feels. The embarrassment slowly taking its place sees to that.
The strange man – was that an American accent? – wipes his watery eyes and attempts to catch his breath. “I’ve got to tell you, Ianto, I’ve had some awkward mornings in my time but this rates top ten at least.” He chuckles again and makes his way toward the bed, reaching out a hand as if to run it through Ianto’s hair. Ianto will forever deny the flinch, but the man must have seen it anyway because he veers toward the nightstand instead. He pulls a wallet from the lube-drawer and tosses it on the bed by Ianto’s knee.
“All right, let’s run through this quickly, shall we? Your life in bullet points.” He leaves Ianto to flip through the wallet and starts to dress from a small cabinet pushed against the far wall. “You’re in Torchwood Cardiff. My name is Captain Jack Harkness. Yes, the rumors are true. Yes, even the one about the bipedal space dog, though you’ve been too polite to ask about that one yet. You were accidentally pulled into a mission and helped me detain an alien last night. There’s a scratch on your shoulder from its claws that should heal up all right so long as you don’t fiddle with it. After I patched you up we came back to my quarters and fell asleep. That’s all.”
Captain Harkness looks up from zipping his fly, sighing and resting his hands on his hips again. His voice is a little softer but just as straightforward. “Nothing happened between us, Ianto. We just slept. Which, granted, is a first for me. Though if I were being honest, I’d say it was the best night’s sleep I’ve had in weeks. You can relax and let go of your death grip on the sheets now.”
He blinks, heat rising to his cheeks as he straightens from his defensive hunch under the covers. “I think it was good for me, too.”
While perhaps not what he intended to say, Ianto’s still fairly certain it’s true. He doesn’t feel tired and his body has that lethargic weight that only really good sleep can give it. Or a really good orgasm, followed by really good sleep. He eyes the man lacing his boots across the room, trousers stretched tight over the fittest arse he’s seen outside of pictures. And thoughts like that were not helping him to relax.
“Captain Harkness—“
“Please, call me Jack.”
“All right. Jack. I just have one question about all this.” Ianto sits up fully, carefully making sure the sheet stays wrapped around his waist. “If we didn’t do anything last night -“
“And we didn’t.”
Ianto nods encouragingly. “Then why am I naked?”
Jack tugs a pair of braces over his shoulders with a wide grin. “Look but don’t touch. Can you really blame me for sneaking a peak at all that Welsh manhood?”
“My manhood appreciates the compliment.”
“I’m sure it does.” Jack’s smile turns wicked as he cocks his hip and leans against the ladder in the center of the room. “I have some things to take care of this morning. Stop at the dry cleaners to get my coat fixed, make a few phone calls, that sort of thing. Why don’t you freshen up here and then meet me in town around ten? We can discuss your future with Torchwood.”
Ianto’s future has everything to do with his past. He eyes the tattoo on his forearm, blocky letters in his own handwriting: Lisa is dead. And below that, in cursive: You can bring her back. It’s best if Captain Jack doesn’t know about Ianto’s plans for the Doctor, so a little interference likely wouldn’t go amiss. He nods his agreement, thinking over the possibilities. “There’s an abandoned warehouse on Lobel Drive, or at least there was the last time I was in Cardiff. No one will bother us there if you want some privacy.”
“Privacy.” Jack’s face stills, the flirtatious gleam fading from his eyes. “Why would I need privacy to meet you in a place like that?”
There’s something in his voice that makes Ianto’s heart beat faster, anxious for no good reason. He smiles again, trying to diffuse the tension that’s crept into Jack’s body. “Torchwood does call for discretion. Though according to the rumors at One that’s something this branch and its leader has a problem with, so I’m not surprised you wouldn’t recognize it.”
“What can I say? Indiscreet is my middle name. I had very progressive parents.” Jack’s voice is distant, as though he’s flirting on reflex. Then he takes a deep breath and let’s go of the mood that overtook him, physically shrugging it off his shoulders. “All right, we’ll meet at your warehouse. I’ll have Tosh enter in a reminder once she’s fixed your PDA so you won’t forget. Hell, she’s probably here and got it done already.”
“Fixed my PDA? What’s wrong with it? Is it broken?” He’s half out of the bed before he remembers he’s not wearing any clothes. Jack stops him with a hand on his shoulder, catching the sheet before it falls. Then Ianto’s embarrassed again, pulling the sheets up around his hips and trying hard to keep his breath from deserting him. He’s shaking, Christ he’s shaking, and the Guide is gone. He can’t find the companions without it, can’t get Lisa back, can’t fix the timeline--
Jack’s weight on the bed rocks Ianto like a wave on the ocean. He rubs Ianto’s back, calmly talking him through the panic attack and whispering soothing nonsense in his ear. He tells him about the weevil from last night, and how Ianto fell on the PDA in a moment of bravery. It’s hard to focus on the words, but Ianto lets the movement of Jack’s arm shift him back and forth until he’s leaning against the other man’s shoulder. It’s easy to rest there, the muscles broad and warm under his chin.
It’s even easier to brush his mouth against Jack’s. The kiss is soft, unhurried, and exactly what Ianto needs. Jack allows it for a moment before pulling back with a sigh. “You’ve got me all twisted up inside, Ianto Jones. No one should go through life without having this.”
He presses a kiss into Ianto’s hair and pulls away, walking toward the ladder without looking back. “Your system allows you to function, Ianto, but it doesn’t allow you to live. Only you can do that.”
Then he’s gone, leaving Ianto trembling and alone on the bed. He rubs his face and takes a few deep breaths before heading into the bathroom for a cold shower - at least until he can’t remember why the water needed to be chilly and turns the tap up to a more reasonable temperature.
* * *
You readjust the phone on your shoulder to look at the new tattoo properly, wiping the excess ink and blood away with the dirty towel.
IT’S NOT MURDER
IF IT’S NECESSARY
How far you’ve come that this is your life now. It feels wrong. The world feels wrong.
* * *
Ianto inhales, clutching at his shoulder. “What’s going on? Where am I?”
The man in front of him drops Ianto’s suit jacket on the floor and takes a step back from the metal table Ianto is sitting on, empty hands raised high. His voice is calm, the accent different than what Ianto is used to hearing. “It’s all right. You’re in Torchwood Cardiff. There’s a note in your right trouser pocket that explains everything.”
Still clutching his injured shoulder (though the pain isn’t so bad now that the jacket’s off –removing it must have knocked something loose) Ianto reaches awkwardly across his hips and feels around with his left hand. There is a note, written in two sets of handwriting, one his own.
He’s Captain Harkness, T3.
Guide broken – DON’T PANIC – getting fixed.
You should call him Jack.
Well. He sets the note carefully on the table next to him and contemplates the man gathering supplies on the other side of the room. So this was the fabled Jack Harkness? Ianto had expected something…well, more. There’s a sadness lurking in the set of his shoulders that doesn’t fit the sexual carnivore the rumor mill at One had made him out to be.
Jack turns back to Ianto and waves a packet of butterfly bandages in the air, victorious. The grin doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but Ianto can see him trying. “Found it! Trust me to fix your sexy weevil wound now that you’ve read your little note?”
Weevil wound? The hell was he doing fighting aliens in the sewers of Cardiff? Ianto half shrugs and unbuttons his shirt sleeves.
As Jack sets up the bandages and a small spray can on the table, Ianto looks around. He’s inside a round room, set deep under what looks to be another level of space. There are dirty tiles on the walls and empty takeout cartons everywhere (which is probably why it took Jack so long to find the bandages). If it wasn’t for the glistening steel of the medical instruments and the shiny gleam of alien tech sprinkled among the pizza boxes he’d think he was in one of the older tube stations in downtown London. That, and it smells like a morgue. Not the best place to be performing any kind of medical procedure, no matter how minor.
He’s about to tell Harkness to forget it when he notices how still the other man has gone. He glances up to find him staring at his chest, Ianto’s hands having gone about the routine of unbuttoning his shirt without his notice. Ianto has always been pale, but the dark ink of the tattoos make his skin practically glow in the overhead light.
Oh. Ianto remembers now. He supposes the tattoos must seem strange to Jack, who hasn’t stopped staring. His mouth is even hanging open a little, in what Ianto can only assume is shock.
Ianto hisses when his shirt tugs on the scratch – a little bit of blood had dried to the cloth – and it jolts Jack enough to break the man’s gaze. He blinks, shakes his head, and helps Ianto remove the ruined shirt more carefully.
“Funny,” Jack says, voice a little shaky. He’s definitely not what Ianto had expected. “You never struck me as the body art type.”
“I’m not, really. These are just…tools, that’s all.” The tattoos are concentrated on his arms - easily read when he rolls up his sleeves - but there are quite a few on his chest and stomach, as well. He runs a thumb over the mark on his right forearm. You can bring her back.
“Tools?”
Ianto inhales, letting his arms drop to his sides so Jack can properly clean his shoulder. The disinfectant spray burns like hell. “My condition affects the ability to recall new facts but procedural memory is a different part of the brain and that’s working fine. If I repeat something often enough I can condition myself into responding to it on instinct. Habit and routine allow me to function properly. I don’t remember getting the tattoos but seeing them reminds me of the reasons I did. Only important information gets a tattoo. Everything else is in the Guide.”
He smiles at the tattoo just above his waistband, shakily printed upside down so he can read it while sitting: Eat! Coffee is not a food group. He always did forget to eat when stressed. A little reminder never hurt anyone.
The captain puts the last bandage in place, fingers smoothing out the plastic to make sure it stays. His hand ghosts over Ianto’s chest until it rests on the largest letters there. “Find the Doctor,” he reads, warm breath tickling the fine hairs on Ianto’s temple. “What does this one help you remember?”
“That there’s always hope for a better world. That it doesn’t have to be like this forever.”
“Forever’s a long time, Ianto Jones.” Jack’s other hand comes to rest against Ianto’s neck, thumb rubbing the soft spot just below his ear. They’ve shifted so that he’s leaning against the table between Ianto’s legs. They’re so close Ianto can feel the heat radiating between them. There’s a smell in the air that makes his mouth water, like musk and sex and the most delicious things ever.
It’s disturbingly intimate, being petted by a strange man in the middle of an underground base. Disturbing, but inexplicably right.
They meet in a hiss of breath, lips crushing against teeth. Jack’s hand is huge, tilting Ianto’s head to deepen the kiss even further. He tastes like stale coffee and electricity, the combination numbing and exhilarating at the same time.
Ianto wants more and he’s never considered himself a passive lover. His flailing grip latches onto Jack’s braces and gives them a good tug, scooting further back on the table and pulling Jack with him. Jack gives a surprised moan but wastes no time climbing up, somehow managing to maintain the kiss despite the movement. The new position aligns their bodies just right and Ianto tugs Jack even closer.
There’s panting in his ear and the world whites out for a moment. It’s been so long since he’s felt like this. So long since he had any say in what his body did or felt. So long…
The last time he felt this way had been with Lisa, the night before Canary Wharf.
God, what was he doing?
“Jack. Jack, stop.” He has to push the man away to take a proper gulp of air. Jack just moves on to sucking at Ianto’s neck, making his toes curl and his eyes roll in their sockets. It feels so good he can’t stand it anymore. “Jack, stop, please.”
Jack moans and falls heavily against Ianto, pinning him to the table. He buries his face in Ianto’s neck again, panting open-mouthed against his shoulder.
“I’m sorry. I can’t. I’m sorry.” It’s all Ianto can seem to say. His eyes are burning and he can’t catch his breath. “I can’t. I’m sorry. I can’t.”
Jack pushes himself off the table, stumbling to lean against a scanner. His knees shake a little and he closes his eyes. “I know. I know.” He takes a deep breath, running a hand through his hair. “She’s only just gone for you, isn’t she?”
Ianto lays there, skin rapidly cooling from the loss of Jack. He rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands, pressing until he sees stars. He feels moisture leak from the sides anyway, and his bottom lip quivers in shame. It was all so unfair.
“Okay. Okay.” Jack seems to be struggling to gather his wits about him. Ianto can sympathize. “It’s late. Why don’t we just…call it a night, huh? You can sleep here, if you want to.”
“Here on this metal slab? Thanks for that.” The truth is Ianto has no idea where he’s been staying. All that information is in the Guide, which he can only assume is in a thousand pieces somewhere inside this mausoleum of a hidden base.
“There’s some camp beds a few levels down. They haven’t been used in awhile but they should still be-”
“Can I stay with you?” Jack’s eyes widen absurdly, though Ianto can’t really blame him for being surprised. Turned down and propositioned in one evening - that’s got to be a record even for the Captain. Ianto would feel bad about it but there’s a panicky edge of despair creeping through his thoughts and he really doesn’t want to be alone tonight. “I know it’s not appropriate, with the whole…no sex thing happening and that you don’t know me very well, but… I just need…”
There’s a hand on his wrist, pulling his fists away from his face. That lonely sorrow Ianto saw in Jack is back, welling up in his eyes like tears. He licks his lips; Ianto only resists the urge to kiss them by chewing on his own. “It’s all right. We’ll just – we’ll just sleep. Come on.”
Jack doesn’t say anything as Ianto wipes his face and gathers his clothes, for which he’s pathetically grateful. He follows Jack up the stairs and into a technological wonderland of pipes and gadgets and god knows what else. He’s too tired to focus on anything but moving forward.
After some more stairs Ianto finds himself in an office – Jack’s, he’s assuming. A hidden hatch later and Ianto is inside Jack’s private rooms. They’re tiny, and so is the bed. There is no couch.
Jack steps off the ladder and slides his arms around Ianto’s waist. It’s very hard not to lean back against him but Ianto manages somehow. “I know what you said earlier about being inappropriate, but I’d really like to hold you right now. Is that okay?”
Ianto pulls away, running his fingers over the tattoos on his arms. After a moment he nods jerkily and they settle on the small bed, Jack huddled close behind him. He must surely be uncomfortable, shirt still tucked into trousers and braces snugged tight, but he makes no attempt to loosen his clothing. For all the rumors and charm, he’s really being the perfect gentleman about sharing his bed. Which, of course, makes Ianto feel even worse.
Time passes in the close dark of the room. It’s quiet times like this - the trickle of water from the level above, Jack’s slow breathing in his ear – that Ianto can feel himself drifting. Can feel the world slipping out from under his grasp. Everything seems hazy and vague, vision blurring like a heat shimmer. His memory is close now, the last he can recall with crisp precision dulled and warm with lethargy. He lets himself sink into it, floating in the abyss that is his mind.
It’s much later when he finds himself talking to fill the void, so there’s something there besides himself. “If I close my eyes it’s like I’m still there, still inside the Tower with all that fire and pain. It’s like I’m there but I know it’s over, too. That the Cybermen are gone and the Doctor saved us. Then I blink and somewhere she’s screaming. Somewhere she’s hurt. If I could just… find her, keep her safe, everything will be alright again. But I can’t. I don’t even know how long she’s been gone. I can’t… How can I heal if I can’t feel time? How can I move on if there’s nothing to move on to?”
Someone sighs in his ear and Ianto stills, not wanting to disturb the person behind him. As nice as it feels to be held, the angles are all wrong; the arms resting against his side are too heavy, the chest not curvy enough. But if he closes his eyes and thinks of nothing at all, then maybe it could be different, maybe…
The warmth at his back is Lisa, her breath ghosting against the side of his neck. He relaxes into her embrace, letting the darkness pull him under. “Love you, baby,” he murmurs, more asleep than awake. “See you in the morning.”
* * *
The Battle of Canary Wharf was terrible. If it wasn’t for the Doctor, you don’t know what would have happened. The end of the world, probably. You know you should be grateful for that, no matter how much it feels like the world did end and you’re stuck in some terrible purgatory. The truth of the matter is that he didn’t finish the job. The ghost shifts knocked reality out of balance, skewed the timeline, and allowed over seven hundred people to die.
“The Doctor travels in a time machine. If we find a way to make him see this is the wrong chain of events then he can go back and make it so the Battle never happened. I’d never have gotten hurt and Lisa never would have died. Like a big retcon pill for the universe. You just need to know how much to give.
“The hardest part is getting the Doctor’s attention. You have to create events that resonate across timelines, setting off shockwaves big enough for him to see. He has to want to come back. He has to want to fix things for the better. And that’s where I come in.”
* * *
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Ianto mentions casually, “but I’m pretty sure this is illegal.”
The man pauses in pulling the bound and hooded figure out of the back of a parked SUV. “Huh. I always thought you were the type of guy who enjoyed a little bondage now and then.”
“Oh, I enjoy bondage as much as the next Welshman; it’s just that parking garages are usually not the most comfortable place in which to enjoy it.”
He yanks a final time on the figure and props it against the back bumper, then leans against it himself, eyes raking up Ianto’s suit to settle firmly on the dip in his jaw. “I don’t know, I’ve had fun in a few backseats before. Care to try this one out?”
There’s a dry remark about gear sticks lurking just beyond his back teeth, but Ianto shakes it off; definitely not the time nor place. “Look, you can’t just blindfold someone and drag them around in your bloody great car. I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but-“
The man’s casual slouch against the SUV tightens and the teasing disappears from his voice. “Relax, Ianto. This is Torchwood business. Here.” He fishes a slim wallet out of a coat pocket and tosses it to Ianto. “And if that’s not enough to convince you, look in your right pants pocket.”
The wallet holds only a single ID granting its owner – Captain Jack Harkness, Torchwood Cardiff – clearance on all levels. It’s hard to fake the iridescent ink…but why would anyone want to anyway? Questionable kidnappings aside, of course.
Trust Torchwood is written on the hand holding the wallet. Odd little reminder considering the circumstances, but Ianto has learned to trust his own handwriting above all else. Harkness knows about the pocket trick so he must have spoken to Ianto at some length before now.
Stepping closer he can see there’s something off about the hooded figure – it’s curled into itself, slowly swaying back and forth. Light shines on its hands with the movement and Ianto glimpses what can only be very sharp claws. There’s a mournful moaning coming from under the hood that makes the short hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
He tosses the wallet back to Harkness and gingerly grabs just above the creature’s elbow, waiting for it to put up a fight. The moaning gets louder at his touch, but it shuffles along next to him without resistance. This close he can make out the Torchwood logo above the breast pocket of its boiler suit. Clearly this is not the first time this particular alien has been in custody.
Harkness takes the other arm, leading them through a fire door labeled “Employees Only” and down a dimly lit corridor. There’s a lift at the far end that requires a key, thumb scan, and numeric password to open. It’s a tight fit between the three of them and the smell coming from the alien is nigh unbearable.
The Captain laughs at Ianto’s attempt to breathe through his mouth, or maybe just his expression. “They live in the sewer, how else would you expect them to smell? You get used to it after a while.”
“Sorry,” Ianto gasps, attempting to speak without actually inhaling first. “It’s my first alien. Not much call for them in the research department.”
“What were you researching at One that wasn’t alien?”
“Retcon,” he answers bluntly. It’s enough to keep Harkness quiet when the lift doors open to another shadowy corridor that still manages to be brighter than the previous one. Ianto’s starting to think Captain Jack is having him on; surely Torchwood Three didn’t need this much ambiance? There had to be a more convenient entrance for this sort of thing. The white zone is for loading and unloading smelly aliens only. All other aliens will be towed at the home planet’s expense.
When Harkness elbows a button at the end of the hall, loud klaxons fill the air and for a moment it’s all Ianto can do to keep the growling alien from tearing out his larynx. “Clearly there’s got to be a better way,” he grits out. Harkness tugs sharply on the hood around the alien’s head and sprays it with some kind of aerosol that drops the creature with a low snarl. Ianto takes a moment to adjust the lay of his suit, left shoulder sore from the struggle. He freezes in the motion of shooting his cuffs when he notices that part of the wall has rolled away.
“Of course there’s a better way,” Harkness says, rubbing a little at the tense muscles of Ianto’s shoulder. He would be offended by the presumptuousness of the gesture if it didn’t feel so nice. “But then you’d have missed the grand entrance. Welcome to the Hub, Ianto Jones.”
The room is huge, cavernous, a backwards conglomeration of eras cobbled together by many different hands. There’s graffiti along one wall, a huge Welsh dragon opposite what looks like an ancient Tube station. Everything gleams with a faint sheen of moisture, due in part to the water trickling down the metal sculpture in the center and collecting in a pool below their feet. The smell of mildew and ozone hangs in the air. Garbage and takeaway boxes litter every surface.
The man has a bloody Batcave. No wonder Harkness was so cocky.
There’s a gleam in the Harkness’ eye, as if he’s waiting for Ianto to be impressed. Ianto tries very hard not to be, just for the sake of being contrary. “So just like that I’m in your base. I thought Torchwood was a secret organization?”
Harkness waves it off. “You’ve been here before. And it’s not like you’d tell anyone.”
“You’re right. Who’d believe an amnesiac with brain damage that there’s a secret base under Cardiff full of alien-hunting men in period costume?”
“I’m sure there’s someone. The fact that you won’t remember it tomorrow is a bonus, since retcon doesn’t work on you anymore.”
“And you’ve discovered that how?”
“You don’t want to know. Come on, help me get her secure and I’ll give you a tour."
Between them they manage to haul the unconscious alien through the main atrium and down a hallway that smells distinctly of shut-in animal, which Ianto would really rather not contemplate at this point in time. He wonders how many people Harkness has on his staff. T3 had been running on a skeleton crew before Canary Wharf; by the looks of things very little has changed.
“I could do this, you know. I could help you.”
“We’ve been through this, Ianto. It’s not practical or safe to have someone with your condition loose in the Hub. There’s too many variables.”
Ianto drops his end of the alien and puts his hands on his hips. “We’ve not been through this because this is the first time I’ve brought it up. I’m not some invalid, Harkness.”
The Captain’s struggling to hold on to the creature, falling against the wall for support. “So not the time, Ianto. Little help here? I think she’s waking up.”
“I am not incapable, Jack. You obviously need more help than what you’ve got.”
“Ianto!”
He grudgingly picks up the alien’s smelly feet again. “Look, all I want is to be useful. I have some long-term projects going on but until they come to fruition I’m at a loose end. Everyone needs a purpose, Jack - I mean, what do you expect me to do all day? Sit around and knit?”
Harkness’ eyes gleam madly in the fluorescent light. “You can knit? That’s kind of sexy.”
“So not the time, Jack.” They eventually come into a long, equally smelly corridor with cells on either side. They deposit the moaning creature on the floor of one with not a moment to spare, quickly leaving it to recover on its own.
While Harkness secures the door, Ianto rubs his shoulder carefully, the pain making him wince. It was barely noticeable on the way to the cells but carrying the alien down that last stretch of hallway must have knocked something loose. Harkness turns to find him surreptitiously trying to peek under his jacket.
“All right, I saw that. No more complaints, I’m taking you to Medical and looking at that scratch. Weevils live in the sewer - God knows what they have under their claws.”
Ianto pales at the thought. “I’m inclined to agree with you. All right, just…all right.”
It’s a long way to Torchwood’s medical bay, which is literally a hole in the ground. Ianto hops up onto the only flat surface he can find and starts to take his jacket off…with rather terrible results. Harkness helps him with the sleeve but the damage has already been done.
He inhales, clutching in pain at his shoulder. “What’s going on? Where am I?”
* * *
“I shouldn’t say anything more. There’s no way to prove you are who you say you are.” You really shouldn’t have picked up the phone when it rang – there’s no way to know if the person on the other end is lying or not.
Don’t answer the phone. You’ll have to write that down.
Tucking the headset between your shoulder and neck, you carefully stretch out your leg. The new tattoo is sore, but not too bad. You wrap all the rubbish carefully in the ruined towel and throw it away.
“I mean, I trust Torchwood, of course I do. My information was copied directly out of the archives by an inside source. One of the agents was sympathetic to my cause and helped me out, gave me the search program to run. They helped me decide what to do. I suppose it’s useless to worry; you have to know all this already. If you aren’t my contact then how would you even know to call me here?”
There’s a pause on the other end, silence stretching into seconds. The back of your neck prickles with foreboding. “Hello? Are you still there? I-”
The agent interrupts you, speaking quietly and a little out of breath. What he says doesn’t make any sense.
“Suzie gave it to you? I don’t know any Suzie. Why would she give you my number?”
You rush over to your jacket, yanking the Guide from the inner pocket. A quick file search for ‘Suzie’ comes up negative; so does ‘Susan’, ‘Suzanne’, and anything starting with the letters SUZ. The agent is obviously lying, but why? Jesus, who have you been talking to all this time if not your primary contact?
You can hear them breathing over the phone; the rasping so remarkably close they may as well be in the same room. “Who is this? What do you want?”
Silence on the other end of the line. “Hello? Answer me, damn it! Who is this?”
More silence…and then the Guide vibrates in your hand, alarm startling in the empty room. The search icon is blinking.
* * *
Ianto twists in the seat to get a better look at his shoulder without taking off his seatbelt or his suit jacket. There’s a little bit of blood on his shirt but it doesn’t hurt all that badly. He loosens his tie and undoes the first few buttons, peeling his collar away to see the wound more closely.
The driver glances away from the road, eyes zeroing in on the shadow of Ianto’s clavicle. “Normally I don’t mind when a handsome man undresses next to me but this time I - Hey. You’re bleeding. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, it’s just a scratch, that’s all.”
“How bad?”
Ianto straightens his clothes as best he can. The man next to him looks worried. “It’s just a scratch. I’ve had worse, believe me.”
“Still, best let me take a look at that when we get to the Hub. Weevils live in the sewers; a little scratch can get infected easily.”
Ianto feels himself go pale. “This is a weevil scratch? Those things that live under the streets of Cardiff?”
“Forgotten your daring rescue already, huh? That was fast.”
“Yup. Sorry. I have this condition. It’s like short term memory loss, only it’s permanent. The doctors say I have a threshold of about twenty minutes or so before events start to fade. Nothing personal, I just…can’t help it.” There’s a twitch in the other man’s jaw; Ianto suspects he’s trying not to smile. “I’ve told you this before, haven’t I?”
The man grins, wide and flirtatious. “Once or twice. I used to consider myself unforgettable until you came along.”
“Sorry to disappoint. At least your jokes are still funny no matter how many times you tell them.”
“This is true.” He takes one hand off the wheel for Ianto to shake. The SUV doesn’t wobble off its course, but the trees whizzing by in the darkness beyond the windscreen are enough to make Ianto glad for the seat belt. “Captain Jack Harkness, Torchwood Three. That’s the third time I’ve introduced myself to you tonight, Ianto. You need to get some kind of note system or something.”
“As a matter of fact…” Ianto pulls the Guide from his inner jacket pocket only to find the screen cracked and empty. Fuck. He thumbs the power button twice, hoping, and nothing. Oh, fuck.
Jack glances quickly between Ianto and the road, alarmed by his rapid breathing. He squeezes Ianto’s knee with a huge hand; Ianto’s too distracted to worry about how steady the driving is this time. “Hey hey, take it easy. What’s wrong?”
“My PDA is broken. I can’t turn it on and I don’t know how to fix it. Jack, this is important! I need this to be working all the time. What am I going to do?”
“I have a technician on staff that makes Q look like a toddler with tinker toys. I’m sure she’ll be able to fix it.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I’ll put it on her desk with a note to work on it posthaste. She’s been coming in early recently so it should be ready by breakfast tomorrow.”
They drive in silence for a few streets, Ianto cradling the PDA and running his thumb over the spiderweb of cracks across the screen. It doesn’t bear thinking about what will happen if he can’t use the files on the Guide.
He inhales deeply, changing the subject as quick as he can. “So I got this scratch fighting a weevil? You know, I grew up in Cardiff and I never saw one until Dave Haverson showed me a file in London. I almost didn’t believe him, but Dave was part of the team researching them up on Level Nine. He theorized that they’re indigenous to England but were displaced underground when the land was settled. No one could convince him otherwise. He even dressed up like a weevil at the Halloween party, boiler suit and all.”
Jack turns the wheel sharply, beeping at an old woman crossing the street and Ianto swears he hears Bloody Torchwood! as they speed around her. Jack either doesn’t hear or doesn’t care, taking another corner just as fast as the first. “Dave sounds like a fun guy. Think he’d be interested in looking at this beauty when we’re done with her?”
“Probably not. Level Nine was overrun by Daleks during the invasion. I assume he was exterminated with everyone else.”
It’s quiet in the cab for a while. Jack actually stops at a red light, turning a little in his seat. “I’m sorry, Ianto. For upsetting you earlier.”
“I’m not upset. It’s just hard sometimes, not knowing what happened to my friends. I miss them.”
“You could look them up. Maybe one or two survived.”
He shrugs, movement pulling at the scratch. “The odds are against it. Besides, what would be the point? I’ll forget I did in twenty minutes and feel depressed for no reason. It’d just be a pain in the arse.”
The light turns green and Jack tightens his grip on the wheel. The muscles in his jaw work for a moment before he speaks. “I used to envy you, Ianto. Did you know that? No matter what happens you always get a fresh start. All that history gone in a moment. All that pain.”
Ianto turns the Guide in his hands. “I wish it were that simple, Jack. History is all I have. Never knowing what’s going to happen from one minute to the next; never being able to relax. It’s like being lost in the dark.”
The pain is brilliant for a moment, sparking behind his eyes and traveling down into his chest. The past was all he had; the present barely existed, and the future? The future was a joke. Everything could end tomorrow and Ianto wouldn’t know the difference. The world was so fucked up.
He takes a deep breath and thinks about the Doctor.
Soon. He’d find a companion soon.
He strokes the cracked screen a final time and hands it over to Jack, reluctantly. “Are you sure your technician can fix my Guide?”
“Tosh has fixed worse than this. She once widdled together a Carbonian matter modulator with a soldering iron, bungee cord, two sparkplugs, and an old calculator. She’s the best I’ve ever seen.”
“No offense, Jack, but I need this machine to work. It’s important.”
“I understand, Ianto. Try putting your faith outside yourself once in awhile.”
“Not happening. It’s hard to trust the world when I don’t have a place in it.”
He reaches across the gear stick to tap Ianto on the wrist. “Your tattoo says differently.”
It does, in fact, tell Ianto to Trust Torchwood. He supposes in Cardiff that means Jack. He clears his throat, staring out the windscreen at the passing dark. “I trust myself. I only rely on Torchwood because I told myself I can. That’s my handwriting.”
Jack’s quiet again, driving in circles for all Ianto recognizes the streets outside. Put some faith outside yourself.
Ruffling through his jacket reveals a small notepad and pen in the left side pocket, just as he knew it would. “Each pocket I have means something different thing. The inside jacket pocket is for the PDA. I input everything in there, from the people I meet to what I had for breakfast. When there’s no time for that or there’s something I need to attend to right away I put a note in my right trouser pocket.” He scribbles down a quick reminder and hands the paper to Jack, who smiles.
He’s Captain Harkness, T3.
Guide broken – DON’T PANIC – getting fixed.
“You forgot one thing.” Jack slows the SUV to a stop outside a parking garage and steals Ianto’s pen. His handwriting is smaller than Ianto’s, a little more neat.
You should call him Jack.
Ianto smiles back and tucks the paper in his trouser pocket. “There. Now there won’t be any confusion.”
Jack laughs. “Yeah, until you take off your pants.”
“Mm. And are you so certain you can get my pants off, Captain?”
He growls, smile crooking up into a smirk. “Oh, I love a good challenge.”
* * *
A tutorial begins automatically when you open the program, explaining the altered blood cells it’s programmed to search for and how Torchwood modified the PDA to scan every human within an expanding radius for them. You skip through it as quickly as possible, hands shaking, and the results of the latest search spill onto the screen. It’s positive.
There’s a companion nearby. The odds of actually finding one… The address on the Guide is familiar, an out of the way spot no one would think to look. It’s perfect, it’s all so perfect.
Your hand skirts the edge of the new tattoo on your thigh. It’s time.
Someone is talking in your ear, asking what’s wrong. “I’m sorry,” you tell them politely. “I’ll have to call you back.”
* * *
Ianto’s just beaten his high score when he hears it: a growling howl, followed by a crash.
The world outside the SUV is dark and motionless; he can’t see two feet beyond the glow of the Guide. He holds the screen against his chest and rolls down the window. Silence, though he can just make out a tiny copse of trees in the distance. The yard has that regimented planned look of all urban parks and he can only assume he’s in a city somewhere; maybe it’s just-
There’s a shout from the trees and another low growl.
Definitely not an average mugging, then.
He looks about the cab of the SUV for a weapon of some kind only to come up short. Duct tape and a ham radio? Sure. Fancy computer stations? Oh, yeah. Something actually useful? Unfortunately not. There is a tyre iron in the glove box that will do in a pinch, though.
Ianto tucks the Guide into his jacket pocket and opens the car door experimentally. Nothing ambushes him from either side - and really, what were the chances of Velociraptors in Europe? He’s seen too many films.
His shoes sink into the damp earth of the lawn, masking his approach. There’s a man on the ground behind the trees and another figure leaning over him, head large and misshapen, moonlight gleaming off its fangs. It looks… well, it looks a little like the weevil Dave showed him in London, though somewhat uglier than the photos.
Ianto tightens his grip on the tyre iron and creeps slowly forward. The weevil doesn’t notice, crouched low over its kill. Ianto doesn’t look too closely, but the ground is darker around the body on the grass and he can only assume the worst. He takes a deep breath and swings the iron, rounders-style, right at the monster’s head.
It’s the perfect ambush…except the corpse sits up with a gasping shout and knocks the weevil back a step, the iron glancing off its shoulder instead of its skull. Ianto can only assume this is karma for kicking puppies in a former life or something equally horrible.
The weevil turns and slaps the tyre iron right out of his hands, roaring mightily. Its breath is rancid and Ianto ducks both from it and a second swipe of claws. There aren’t any good-sized branches or rocks on the ground (damn park service) so he punches it in the ribs. Or tries to – the body shot has no effect other than to make his knuckles sore. A kick to the knee scuffs his shoe. He’s not even sure if weevils have genitalia, so that option’s out; besides, he really doesn’t want to make it any madder than he already has.
He’s debating the merits of running back to the SUV when the corpse, now looking much more spry, jumps on the weevil’s back. “Get the can!”
“The what?”
“The can!” The weevil’s shoulders are too wide to reach behind itself and claw the nuisance off its back, but that doesn’t mean it’s not trying. The man looks a little nauseous from the spinning. “The aerosol can! It rolled over to the left! Spray it in the face!”
Ianto runs to the left and sure enough, nestled in a pile of twigs and lawn clippings is a small black spray can. He dodges as close to the furious weevil as he can, ducking the flailing claws and depressing the nozzle right in the alien’s eyes. He holds it down, emptying what surely must be the entire can into its nasal cavity. After a long moment the weevil lets out a mournful wail and falls –
- right onto Ianto, taking the once-corpse for the ride. The three fall with a mighty oof.
He lays there, trying to breathe through the smell without breaking any ribs from the weight of the creature, and the absurdity of the situation comes upon him. There’s a weevil snoring on his chest in the middle of Cardiff because Ianto maced it in the face. Ianto. In its face. And he actually enjoyed it.
There’s a matching laughter above him as the man-corpse helpfully removes his portion of the weight and pushes the behemoth off his rescuer. He offers Ianto a hand, the disorienting sensation of being yanked back to his feet only adding to Ianto’s hilarity. He takes a step forward to balance himself and the two men end up standing very close to one another, chests touching with each gulp of air. Ianto loosens his grip but the stranger doesn’t let go.
Ianto’s Maiden Fair really is attractive in a retro movie sort of way. Gorgeous smile, beautiful eyes, perfectly tousled hair. He smells infinitely better than the body on the ground, like musk and sex and the most delicious things ever. Ianto licks his lips and leans just a little closer, breathing deeply.
Their noses brush. The man’s eyelids flutter…and he takes a step back, finally releasing Ianto’s wrist. He walks over to contemplate the unconscious weevil. “I thought I told you to stay in the car.”
“Yes, because you were obviously handling things so well on your own.”
He looks up, affronted. “My gun seems to be missing. You wouldn’t know anything about that would you?”
A gun certainly would have been handy five minutes ago. “Nope. I don’t think they let people like me carry guns.”
“I certainly hope not. Remind me to frisk you later.”
“Promises, promises.”
The man’s eyebrow lifts, the corner of his mouth slowly curling into a smirk. Ianto joins him next to the creature. If he breathes through his mouth the smell isn’t so bad. “I’m assuming this is an alien hell-bent on the destruction of the human race?”
“Got it in one.”
“Mm. A heavy alien.”
“Uh…” They turn as one to stare at the distance between the weevil and the SUV. It seems a lot farther than it did a few moments ago.
“Still wishing I stayed in the car?” Ianto loosens his tie, surprised it remained snug during the fight with the weevil. “All right then. Heads or tails?”
Ianto winds up carrying the heavier shoulders, as the stranger still looks a little pale from his brush with near-death. It’s hard work, the adrenaline slowly disappearing from his body and leaving his muscles aching with the weight. He’s pretty sure there’s something seriously wrong with his shoulder but can’t very well drop his end of the weevil to check. The field teams never mentioned this part of the job during lunch break in the cafeteria.
Still, it could have been worse. He eyes the man struggling with the alien’s legs. “I thought this thing had killed you at first. You okay?”
“Just knocked the wind out of me, that’s all.” They navigate over a small hill and reach the SUV, dropping the weevil and stretching out their backs. The man already looks a little better; there’s color in his cheeks and his eyes aren’t so sunken.
Ianto raises his hand, a little embarrassed over how out of breath he is. “I’m Ianto Jones, by the way. Not sure if we’ve been introduced.”
“Couple of times, yeah. Jack Harkness. Look me up in your thingy while I clear out the back. There’s only so many times I can introduce myself to you in a day.”
Ianto doesn’t bother getting out the Guide; TORCHWOOD is written along the side of the SUV, clearly visible in a patch of moonlight - and who else but Torchwood would be hunting weevils in the middle of the night? Jack Harkness, though… Ianto’s heard of him. Harkness was a favorite of the London rumor mill. He wonders if any of the stories are true.
The one about his arse certainly seems to be, Ianto thinks, enjoying the view as Jack climbs into the back of the SUV.
“See something you like?” Jack calls from the depths, the sounds of heavy boxes being pushed around. Ianto is immediately guilty at having been caught looking, hopeful that the darkness is enough to cover his blush.
He thinks about what Lisa would have to say about Ianto checking out some strange man in the woods, then smiles at the obvious answer. “Look but don’t touch. I’m kind of…with someone.”
There’s a pause, something metallic catching the light inside the car. Ianto can’t see anything from where he’s standing but a moment later there’s the snap of a lid coming down. The boxes move again and Jack comes crawling out of the SUV, brushing his hands together and eyeing Ianto nastily. “And here I thought Lisa was dead. Doesn’t that free you up to play the field?”
Ianto’s breath catches, choked by the cruelty of the man he rescued. “London’s rumors never said anything about you being a heartless bastard. I see they left the important parts out.”
Jack just stares at him, eyes cold. Ianto straightens his shoulders, fists and teeth clenching. “Yes, the woman I love is dead, Captain. Thank you for reminding me. That doesn’t mean I’ve given up hope of ever seeing her again or that her memory means nothing to me. I’m sure a man like you has no idea what that even means. You’ve never loved anyone your whole life.”
He storms off, circling the front of the SUV and slamming the passenger door behind him. Not the best exit strategy, seeing how Jack has the keys, but he’ll be damned if he helps the bastard anymore. Let him figure out how to get the weevil secure in the boot without Ianto.
A few minutes of grunting and rocking the car later, a winded Jack returns to the cab. He looks at Ianto, who refuses to meet his gaze, and turns the ignition key without saying a word. As they drive out of the park and onto the streets of Cardiff, Ianto refuses to consider the idea that he has no control over where Jack is taking them
His shoulder’s not as sore now but he should still make sure it’s not too serious. He doesn’t want to give Jack any more ammunition, so he twists in the seat to get a better look at it without taking off his seat belt or his suit jacket.
* * *
It’s hard to dress properly with your hands shaking like they are but you can’t very well go looking for the companion in your underwear. If you wait too long then he’ll leave the location and you’ll have to track him down again. There’s a wrinkled suit thrown haphazardly over a chair that will have to do. Hopefully it was due to be hung up and not dry-cleaned.
In your rush to put on trousers you nearly miss the crinkle of paper in the right pocket. It’s an old post-it note, crumpled into a ball.
CHANGE TATTOO ON WRIST
DON’T trust Torchwood
There’s more writing on the back: T3 can change Guide remotely. Lied to you. Don’t trust Guide - read diary for info!
The note doesn’t make any sense. You haven’t kept a diary since before the Battle. Have you?
* * *
Click to read on…
You hiss through your teeth as the needle cuts a little deeper than it should, blood blossoming out of the small wound and running down your leg. It’s bleeding far more than it should, which makes you a little queasy.
Maybe you should have another drink to take the edge off. How many have you had so far? You don’t feel drunk, but the truly drunk rarely do. Too much alcohol thins the blood, anyway, and that would make this even more unbearable than otherwise, wouldn’t it?
A tinny voice comes from the land-line receiver next to your hip on the bed. You cradle it against your shoulder and eye the mini bar. “Who is this?”
The man on the other end sighs and recites the proper string of numbers and letters to secure a line for Torchwood. The agent could be using outdated codes to get you to talk, but really, what would be the point?
You catch the writing low on your left hand out of the corner of your eye. Good advice, you think, and dip the bit of string into the ink one more time.
The agent invites you to pick up the conversation where you left off, discussing your work at Torchwood One. “It was an important study. Too much retcon is just as problematic as too little. The memory loss was easier to explain if it was just one or two specific events as opposed to entire days gone missing. It’s all about establishing acceptable levels of brain damage.
“I know. I can’t believe I said that sentence with a straight face, either.” You roll your eyes. “Well, you’ll just have to take my word for it – no smirk in sight.”
You’re surprised at how easy it is to joke with the agent; most days the anxiety is so thick in your throat that it’s hard to breathe. If you let your thoughts drift back to your last complete memory - and you try not to, you really do – you can actually feel the blast of heat against your skin that gave you your own unique brand of brain damage. The exploding vats of B67 had lifted you off your feet and onto Lisa’s machine, knocking it loose from the floor. The sound of your skull caving in was louder than the screaming, but only just. There was fire, and pain, and darkness…and then it fades into nothing, lost in your mind forever.
Ianto comes back to himself all at once, inhaling deeply the strange, musky scent of the bed. There’s a puddle of drool adhering his cheek to the pillowcase that he scrubs away with clumsy hands.
The room around him is…well, it’s just a room, nothing special about it. Just an anonymous room with bad lighting, a soft mattress, and a ladder hanging inexplicably from the ceiling. It feels like the first time he’s been there but he’s not sure - this could be his bedroom in his empty house, for all he knows. But no, there’s nothing recognizable except a messenger bag and pile of dirty clothes thrown in a corner. The nightstand’s drawers are empty except for --
Lube. Lots and lots of lube. And several items only recognizable from late night window-shopping in Soho. The owner of this drawer obviously has no trouble getting a phone line outside or to anywhere else, for that matter. So definitely not his bedroom, then.
It’s only when the sound of running water stops that he notices the open door on his right. He can only see the edge of a sink and the toilet from where he lays on the bed, though the screech of shower curtains pulling back is unmistakable. A wave of guilt hits him and he realizes the scenario has a distinct ‘morning after’ feel to it.
Oh god.
Ianto’s just about to make a break for the ladder when a man steps from the bathroom in a cloud of steam and nudity, toweling himself off as he goes. His complete lack of modesty (and tan lines, not that Ianto was looking) leads to the impression that discovering a strange man cowering under his blankets is not necessarily something out of the ordinary.
It is at this point that Ianto realizes he’s not wearing any pajamas. And that there’s a lot more of him to cower than usual, certain parts of his anatomy taking a keen interest in unfolding events.
Oh, god!
“Morning, sunshine!” the man calls, throwing the wet towel in the corner with Ianto’s clothes. He stands there grinning, very naked hands planted on very naked hips. Ianto attempts to burrow through the mattress using only his elbows. His eyes, enormous and round, only just peek out from under the blanket. No matter how many times he blinks they are both still very, very naked.
The man breaks eye contact first, great booming laughter bending him nearly double. The sound is hardly reassuring, though the longer it goes on the less anxious Ianto feels. The embarrassment slowly taking its place sees to that.
The strange man – was that an American accent? – wipes his watery eyes and attempts to catch his breath. “I’ve got to tell you, Ianto, I’ve had some awkward mornings in my time but this rates top ten at least.” He chuckles again and makes his way toward the bed, reaching out a hand as if to run it through Ianto’s hair. Ianto will forever deny the flinch, but the man must have seen it anyway because he veers toward the nightstand instead. He pulls a wallet from the lube-drawer and tosses it on the bed by Ianto’s knee.
“All right, let’s run through this quickly, shall we? Your life in bullet points.” He leaves Ianto to flip through the wallet and starts to dress from a small cabinet pushed against the far wall. “You’re in Torchwood Cardiff. My name is Captain Jack Harkness. Yes, the rumors are true. Yes, even the one about the bipedal space dog, though you’ve been too polite to ask about that one yet. You were accidentally pulled into a mission and helped me detain an alien last night. There’s a scratch on your shoulder from its claws that should heal up all right so long as you don’t fiddle with it. After I patched you up we came back to my quarters and fell asleep. That’s all.”
Captain Harkness looks up from zipping his fly, sighing and resting his hands on his hips again. His voice is a little softer but just as straightforward. “Nothing happened between us, Ianto. We just slept. Which, granted, is a first for me. Though if I were being honest, I’d say it was the best night’s sleep I’ve had in weeks. You can relax and let go of your death grip on the sheets now.”
He blinks, heat rising to his cheeks as he straightens from his defensive hunch under the covers. “I think it was good for me, too.”
While perhaps not what he intended to say, Ianto’s still fairly certain it’s true. He doesn’t feel tired and his body has that lethargic weight that only really good sleep can give it. Or a really good orgasm, followed by really good sleep. He eyes the man lacing his boots across the room, trousers stretched tight over the fittest arse he’s seen outside of pictures. And thoughts like that were not helping him to relax.
“Captain Harkness—“
“Please, call me Jack.”
“All right. Jack. I just have one question about all this.” Ianto sits up fully, carefully making sure the sheet stays wrapped around his waist. “If we didn’t do anything last night -“
“And we didn’t.”
Ianto nods encouragingly. “Then why am I naked?”
Jack tugs a pair of braces over his shoulders with a wide grin. “Look but don’t touch. Can you really blame me for sneaking a peak at all that Welsh manhood?”
“My manhood appreciates the compliment.”
“I’m sure it does.” Jack’s smile turns wicked as he cocks his hip and leans against the ladder in the center of the room. “I have some things to take care of this morning. Stop at the dry cleaners to get my coat fixed, make a few phone calls, that sort of thing. Why don’t you freshen up here and then meet me in town around ten? We can discuss your future with Torchwood.”
Ianto’s future has everything to do with his past. He eyes the tattoo on his forearm, blocky letters in his own handwriting: Lisa is dead. And below that, in cursive: You can bring her back. It’s best if Captain Jack doesn’t know about Ianto’s plans for the Doctor, so a little interference likely wouldn’t go amiss. He nods his agreement, thinking over the possibilities. “There’s an abandoned warehouse on Lobel Drive, or at least there was the last time I was in Cardiff. No one will bother us there if you want some privacy.”
“Privacy.” Jack’s face stills, the flirtatious gleam fading from his eyes. “Why would I need privacy to meet you in a place like that?”
There’s something in his voice that makes Ianto’s heart beat faster, anxious for no good reason. He smiles again, trying to diffuse the tension that’s crept into Jack’s body. “Torchwood does call for discretion. Though according to the rumors at One that’s something this branch and its leader has a problem with, so I’m not surprised you wouldn’t recognize it.”
“What can I say? Indiscreet is my middle name. I had very progressive parents.” Jack’s voice is distant, as though he’s flirting on reflex. Then he takes a deep breath and let’s go of the mood that overtook him, physically shrugging it off his shoulders. “All right, we’ll meet at your warehouse. I’ll have Tosh enter in a reminder once she’s fixed your PDA so you won’t forget. Hell, she’s probably here and got it done already.”
“Fixed my PDA? What’s wrong with it? Is it broken?” He’s half out of the bed before he remembers he’s not wearing any clothes. Jack stops him with a hand on his shoulder, catching the sheet before it falls. Then Ianto’s embarrassed again, pulling the sheets up around his hips and trying hard to keep his breath from deserting him. He’s shaking, Christ he’s shaking, and the Guide is gone. He can’t find the companions without it, can’t get Lisa back, can’t fix the timeline--
Jack’s weight on the bed rocks Ianto like a wave on the ocean. He rubs Ianto’s back, calmly talking him through the panic attack and whispering soothing nonsense in his ear. He tells him about the weevil from last night, and how Ianto fell on the PDA in a moment of bravery. It’s hard to focus on the words, but Ianto lets the movement of Jack’s arm shift him back and forth until he’s leaning against the other man’s shoulder. It’s easy to rest there, the muscles broad and warm under his chin.
It’s even easier to brush his mouth against Jack’s. The kiss is soft, unhurried, and exactly what Ianto needs. Jack allows it for a moment before pulling back with a sigh. “You’ve got me all twisted up inside, Ianto Jones. No one should go through life without having this.”
He presses a kiss into Ianto’s hair and pulls away, walking toward the ladder without looking back. “Your system allows you to function, Ianto, but it doesn’t allow you to live. Only you can do that.”
Then he’s gone, leaving Ianto trembling and alone on the bed. He rubs his face and takes a few deep breaths before heading into the bathroom for a cold shower - at least until he can’t remember why the water needed to be chilly and turns the tap up to a more reasonable temperature.
You readjust the phone on your shoulder to look at the new tattoo properly, wiping the excess ink and blood away with the dirty towel.
IF IT’S NECESSARY
How far you’ve come that this is your life now. It feels wrong. The world feels wrong.
Ianto inhales, clutching at his shoulder. “What’s going on? Where am I?”
The man in front of him drops Ianto’s suit jacket on the floor and takes a step back from the metal table Ianto is sitting on, empty hands raised high. His voice is calm, the accent different than what Ianto is used to hearing. “It’s all right. You’re in Torchwood Cardiff. There’s a note in your right trouser pocket that explains everything.”
Still clutching his injured shoulder (though the pain isn’t so bad now that the jacket’s off –removing it must have knocked something loose) Ianto reaches awkwardly across his hips and feels around with his left hand. There is a note, written in two sets of handwriting, one his own.
Guide broken – DON’T PANIC – getting fixed.
You should call him Jack.
Well. He sets the note carefully on the table next to him and contemplates the man gathering supplies on the other side of the room. So this was the fabled Jack Harkness? Ianto had expected something…well, more. There’s a sadness lurking in the set of his shoulders that doesn’t fit the sexual carnivore the rumor mill at One had made him out to be.
Jack turns back to Ianto and waves a packet of butterfly bandages in the air, victorious. The grin doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but Ianto can see him trying. “Found it! Trust me to fix your sexy weevil wound now that you’ve read your little note?”
Weevil wound? The hell was he doing fighting aliens in the sewers of Cardiff? Ianto half shrugs and unbuttons his shirt sleeves.
As Jack sets up the bandages and a small spray can on the table, Ianto looks around. He’s inside a round room, set deep under what looks to be another level of space. There are dirty tiles on the walls and empty takeout cartons everywhere (which is probably why it took Jack so long to find the bandages). If it wasn’t for the glistening steel of the medical instruments and the shiny gleam of alien tech sprinkled among the pizza boxes he’d think he was in one of the older tube stations in downtown London. That, and it smells like a morgue. Not the best place to be performing any kind of medical procedure, no matter how minor.
He’s about to tell Harkness to forget it when he notices how still the other man has gone. He glances up to find him staring at his chest, Ianto’s hands having gone about the routine of unbuttoning his shirt without his notice. Ianto has always been pale, but the dark ink of the tattoos make his skin practically glow in the overhead light.
Oh. Ianto remembers now. He supposes the tattoos must seem strange to Jack, who hasn’t stopped staring. His mouth is even hanging open a little, in what Ianto can only assume is shock.
Ianto hisses when his shirt tugs on the scratch – a little bit of blood had dried to the cloth – and it jolts Jack enough to break the man’s gaze. He blinks, shakes his head, and helps Ianto remove the ruined shirt more carefully.
“Funny,” Jack says, voice a little shaky. He’s definitely not what Ianto had expected. “You never struck me as the body art type.”
“I’m not, really. These are just…tools, that’s all.” The tattoos are concentrated on his arms - easily read when he rolls up his sleeves - but there are quite a few on his chest and stomach, as well. He runs a thumb over the mark on his right forearm. You can bring her back.
“Tools?”
Ianto inhales, letting his arms drop to his sides so Jack can properly clean his shoulder. The disinfectant spray burns like hell. “My condition affects the ability to recall new facts but procedural memory is a different part of the brain and that’s working fine. If I repeat something often enough I can condition myself into responding to it on instinct. Habit and routine allow me to function properly. I don’t remember getting the tattoos but seeing them reminds me of the reasons I did. Only important information gets a tattoo. Everything else is in the Guide.”
He smiles at the tattoo just above his waistband, shakily printed upside down so he can read it while sitting: Eat! Coffee is not a food group. He always did forget to eat when stressed. A little reminder never hurt anyone.
The captain puts the last bandage in place, fingers smoothing out the plastic to make sure it stays. His hand ghosts over Ianto’s chest until it rests on the largest letters there. “Find the Doctor,” he reads, warm breath tickling the fine hairs on Ianto’s temple. “What does this one help you remember?”
“That there’s always hope for a better world. That it doesn’t have to be like this forever.”
“Forever’s a long time, Ianto Jones.” Jack’s other hand comes to rest against Ianto’s neck, thumb rubbing the soft spot just below his ear. They’ve shifted so that he’s leaning against the table between Ianto’s legs. They’re so close Ianto can feel the heat radiating between them. There’s a smell in the air that makes his mouth water, like musk and sex and the most delicious things ever.
It’s disturbingly intimate, being petted by a strange man in the middle of an underground base. Disturbing, but inexplicably right.
They meet in a hiss of breath, lips crushing against teeth. Jack’s hand is huge, tilting Ianto’s head to deepen the kiss even further. He tastes like stale coffee and electricity, the combination numbing and exhilarating at the same time.
Ianto wants more and he’s never considered himself a passive lover. His flailing grip latches onto Jack’s braces and gives them a good tug, scooting further back on the table and pulling Jack with him. Jack gives a surprised moan but wastes no time climbing up, somehow managing to maintain the kiss despite the movement. The new position aligns their bodies just right and Ianto tugs Jack even closer.
There’s panting in his ear and the world whites out for a moment. It’s been so long since he’s felt like this. So long since he had any say in what his body did or felt. So long…
The last time he felt this way had been with Lisa, the night before Canary Wharf.
God, what was he doing?
“Jack. Jack, stop.” He has to push the man away to take a proper gulp of air. Jack just moves on to sucking at Ianto’s neck, making his toes curl and his eyes roll in their sockets. It feels so good he can’t stand it anymore. “Jack, stop, please.”
Jack moans and falls heavily against Ianto, pinning him to the table. He buries his face in Ianto’s neck again, panting open-mouthed against his shoulder.
“I’m sorry. I can’t. I’m sorry.” It’s all Ianto can seem to say. His eyes are burning and he can’t catch his breath. “I can’t. I’m sorry. I can’t.”
Jack pushes himself off the table, stumbling to lean against a scanner. His knees shake a little and he closes his eyes. “I know. I know.” He takes a deep breath, running a hand through his hair. “She’s only just gone for you, isn’t she?”
Ianto lays there, skin rapidly cooling from the loss of Jack. He rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands, pressing until he sees stars. He feels moisture leak from the sides anyway, and his bottom lip quivers in shame. It was all so unfair.
“Okay. Okay.” Jack seems to be struggling to gather his wits about him. Ianto can sympathize. “It’s late. Why don’t we just…call it a night, huh? You can sleep here, if you want to.”
“Here on this metal slab? Thanks for that.” The truth is Ianto has no idea where he’s been staying. All that information is in the Guide, which he can only assume is in a thousand pieces somewhere inside this mausoleum of a hidden base.
“There’s some camp beds a few levels down. They haven’t been used in awhile but they should still be-”
“Can I stay with you?” Jack’s eyes widen absurdly, though Ianto can’t really blame him for being surprised. Turned down and propositioned in one evening - that’s got to be a record even for the Captain. Ianto would feel bad about it but there’s a panicky edge of despair creeping through his thoughts and he really doesn’t want to be alone tonight. “I know it’s not appropriate, with the whole…no sex thing happening and that you don’t know me very well, but… I just need…”
There’s a hand on his wrist, pulling his fists away from his face. That lonely sorrow Ianto saw in Jack is back, welling up in his eyes like tears. He licks his lips; Ianto only resists the urge to kiss them by chewing on his own. “It’s all right. We’ll just – we’ll just sleep. Come on.”
Jack doesn’t say anything as Ianto wipes his face and gathers his clothes, for which he’s pathetically grateful. He follows Jack up the stairs and into a technological wonderland of pipes and gadgets and god knows what else. He’s too tired to focus on anything but moving forward.
After some more stairs Ianto finds himself in an office – Jack’s, he’s assuming. A hidden hatch later and Ianto is inside Jack’s private rooms. They’re tiny, and so is the bed. There is no couch.
Jack steps off the ladder and slides his arms around Ianto’s waist. It’s very hard not to lean back against him but Ianto manages somehow. “I know what you said earlier about being inappropriate, but I’d really like to hold you right now. Is that okay?”
Ianto pulls away, running his fingers over the tattoos on his arms. After a moment he nods jerkily and they settle on the small bed, Jack huddled close behind him. He must surely be uncomfortable, shirt still tucked into trousers and braces snugged tight, but he makes no attempt to loosen his clothing. For all the rumors and charm, he’s really being the perfect gentleman about sharing his bed. Which, of course, makes Ianto feel even worse.
Time passes in the close dark of the room. It’s quiet times like this - the trickle of water from the level above, Jack’s slow breathing in his ear – that Ianto can feel himself drifting. Can feel the world slipping out from under his grasp. Everything seems hazy and vague, vision blurring like a heat shimmer. His memory is close now, the last he can recall with crisp precision dulled and warm with lethargy. He lets himself sink into it, floating in the abyss that is his mind.
It’s much later when he finds himself talking to fill the void, so there’s something there besides himself. “If I close my eyes it’s like I’m still there, still inside the Tower with all that fire and pain. It’s like I’m there but I know it’s over, too. That the Cybermen are gone and the Doctor saved us. Then I blink and somewhere she’s screaming. Somewhere she’s hurt. If I could just… find her, keep her safe, everything will be alright again. But I can’t. I don’t even know how long she’s been gone. I can’t… How can I heal if I can’t feel time? How can I move on if there’s nothing to move on to?”
Someone sighs in his ear and Ianto stills, not wanting to disturb the person behind him. As nice as it feels to be held, the angles are all wrong; the arms resting against his side are too heavy, the chest not curvy enough. But if he closes his eyes and thinks of nothing at all, then maybe it could be different, maybe…
The warmth at his back is Lisa, her breath ghosting against the side of his neck. He relaxes into her embrace, letting the darkness pull him under. “Love you, baby,” he murmurs, more asleep than awake. “See you in the morning.”
The Battle of Canary Wharf was terrible. If it wasn’t for the Doctor, you don’t know what would have happened. The end of the world, probably. You know you should be grateful for that, no matter how much it feels like the world did end and you’re stuck in some terrible purgatory. The truth of the matter is that he didn’t finish the job. The ghost shifts knocked reality out of balance, skewed the timeline, and allowed over seven hundred people to die.
“The Doctor travels in a time machine. If we find a way to make him see this is the wrong chain of events then he can go back and make it so the Battle never happened. I’d never have gotten hurt and Lisa never would have died. Like a big retcon pill for the universe. You just need to know how much to give.
“The hardest part is getting the Doctor’s attention. You have to create events that resonate across timelines, setting off shockwaves big enough for him to see. He has to want to come back. He has to want to fix things for the better. And that’s where I come in.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Ianto mentions casually, “but I’m pretty sure this is illegal.”
The man pauses in pulling the bound and hooded figure out of the back of a parked SUV. “Huh. I always thought you were the type of guy who enjoyed a little bondage now and then.”
“Oh, I enjoy bondage as much as the next Welshman; it’s just that parking garages are usually not the most comfortable place in which to enjoy it.”
He yanks a final time on the figure and props it against the back bumper, then leans against it himself, eyes raking up Ianto’s suit to settle firmly on the dip in his jaw. “I don’t know, I’ve had fun in a few backseats before. Care to try this one out?”
There’s a dry remark about gear sticks lurking just beyond his back teeth, but Ianto shakes it off; definitely not the time nor place. “Look, you can’t just blindfold someone and drag them around in your bloody great car. I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but-“
The man’s casual slouch against the SUV tightens and the teasing disappears from his voice. “Relax, Ianto. This is Torchwood business. Here.” He fishes a slim wallet out of a coat pocket and tosses it to Ianto. “And if that’s not enough to convince you, look in your right pants pocket.”
The wallet holds only a single ID granting its owner – Captain Jack Harkness, Torchwood Cardiff – clearance on all levels. It’s hard to fake the iridescent ink…but why would anyone want to anyway? Questionable kidnappings aside, of course.
Trust Torchwood is written on the hand holding the wallet. Odd little reminder considering the circumstances, but Ianto has learned to trust his own handwriting above all else. Harkness knows about the pocket trick so he must have spoken to Ianto at some length before now.
Stepping closer he can see there’s something off about the hooded figure – it’s curled into itself, slowly swaying back and forth. Light shines on its hands with the movement and Ianto glimpses what can only be very sharp claws. There’s a mournful moaning coming from under the hood that makes the short hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
He tosses the wallet back to Harkness and gingerly grabs just above the creature’s elbow, waiting for it to put up a fight. The moaning gets louder at his touch, but it shuffles along next to him without resistance. This close he can make out the Torchwood logo above the breast pocket of its boiler suit. Clearly this is not the first time this particular alien has been in custody.
Harkness takes the other arm, leading them through a fire door labeled “Employees Only” and down a dimly lit corridor. There’s a lift at the far end that requires a key, thumb scan, and numeric password to open. It’s a tight fit between the three of them and the smell coming from the alien is nigh unbearable.
The Captain laughs at Ianto’s attempt to breathe through his mouth, or maybe just his expression. “They live in the sewer, how else would you expect them to smell? You get used to it after a while.”
“Sorry,” Ianto gasps, attempting to speak without actually inhaling first. “It’s my first alien. Not much call for them in the research department.”
“What were you researching at One that wasn’t alien?”
“Retcon,” he answers bluntly. It’s enough to keep Harkness quiet when the lift doors open to another shadowy corridor that still manages to be brighter than the previous one. Ianto’s starting to think Captain Jack is having him on; surely Torchwood Three didn’t need this much ambiance? There had to be a more convenient entrance for this sort of thing. The white zone is for loading and unloading smelly aliens only. All other aliens will be towed at the home planet’s expense.
When Harkness elbows a button at the end of the hall, loud klaxons fill the air and for a moment it’s all Ianto can do to keep the growling alien from tearing out his larynx. “Clearly there’s got to be a better way,” he grits out. Harkness tugs sharply on the hood around the alien’s head and sprays it with some kind of aerosol that drops the creature with a low snarl. Ianto takes a moment to adjust the lay of his suit, left shoulder sore from the struggle. He freezes in the motion of shooting his cuffs when he notices that part of the wall has rolled away.
“Of course there’s a better way,” Harkness says, rubbing a little at the tense muscles of Ianto’s shoulder. He would be offended by the presumptuousness of the gesture if it didn’t feel so nice. “But then you’d have missed the grand entrance. Welcome to the Hub, Ianto Jones.”
The room is huge, cavernous, a backwards conglomeration of eras cobbled together by many different hands. There’s graffiti along one wall, a huge Welsh dragon opposite what looks like an ancient Tube station. Everything gleams with a faint sheen of moisture, due in part to the water trickling down the metal sculpture in the center and collecting in a pool below their feet. The smell of mildew and ozone hangs in the air. Garbage and takeaway boxes litter every surface.
The man has a bloody Batcave. No wonder Harkness was so cocky.
There’s a gleam in the Harkness’ eye, as if he’s waiting for Ianto to be impressed. Ianto tries very hard not to be, just for the sake of being contrary. “So just like that I’m in your base. I thought Torchwood was a secret organization?”
Harkness waves it off. “You’ve been here before. And it’s not like you’d tell anyone.”
“You’re right. Who’d believe an amnesiac with brain damage that there’s a secret base under Cardiff full of alien-hunting men in period costume?”
“I’m sure there’s someone. The fact that you won’t remember it tomorrow is a bonus, since retcon doesn’t work on you anymore.”
“And you’ve discovered that how?”
“You don’t want to know. Come on, help me get her secure and I’ll give you a tour."
Between them they manage to haul the unconscious alien through the main atrium and down a hallway that smells distinctly of shut-in animal, which Ianto would really rather not contemplate at this point in time. He wonders how many people Harkness has on his staff. T3 had been running on a skeleton crew before Canary Wharf; by the looks of things very little has changed.
“I could do this, you know. I could help you.”
“We’ve been through this, Ianto. It’s not practical or safe to have someone with your condition loose in the Hub. There’s too many variables.”
Ianto drops his end of the alien and puts his hands on his hips. “We’ve not been through this because this is the first time I’ve brought it up. I’m not some invalid, Harkness.”
The Captain’s struggling to hold on to the creature, falling against the wall for support. “So not the time, Ianto. Little help here? I think she’s waking up.”
“I am not incapable, Jack. You obviously need more help than what you’ve got.”
“Ianto!”
He grudgingly picks up the alien’s smelly feet again. “Look, all I want is to be useful. I have some long-term projects going on but until they come to fruition I’m at a loose end. Everyone needs a purpose, Jack - I mean, what do you expect me to do all day? Sit around and knit?”
Harkness’ eyes gleam madly in the fluorescent light. “You can knit? That’s kind of sexy.”
“So not the time, Jack.” They eventually come into a long, equally smelly corridor with cells on either side. They deposit the moaning creature on the floor of one with not a moment to spare, quickly leaving it to recover on its own.
While Harkness secures the door, Ianto rubs his shoulder carefully, the pain making him wince. It was barely noticeable on the way to the cells but carrying the alien down that last stretch of hallway must have knocked something loose. Harkness turns to find him surreptitiously trying to peek under his jacket.
“All right, I saw that. No more complaints, I’m taking you to Medical and looking at that scratch. Weevils live in the sewer - God knows what they have under their claws.”
Ianto pales at the thought. “I’m inclined to agree with you. All right, just…all right.”
It’s a long way to Torchwood’s medical bay, which is literally a hole in the ground. Ianto hops up onto the only flat surface he can find and starts to take his jacket off…with rather terrible results. Harkness helps him with the sleeve but the damage has already been done.
He inhales, clutching in pain at his shoulder. “What’s going on? Where am I?”
“I shouldn’t say anything more. There’s no way to prove you are who you say you are.” You really shouldn’t have picked up the phone when it rang – there’s no way to know if the person on the other end is lying or not.
Don’t answer the phone. You’ll have to write that down.
Tucking the headset between your shoulder and neck, you carefully stretch out your leg. The new tattoo is sore, but not too bad. You wrap all the rubbish carefully in the ruined towel and throw it away.
“I mean, I trust Torchwood, of course I do. My information was copied directly out of the archives by an inside source. One of the agents was sympathetic to my cause and helped me out, gave me the search program to run. They helped me decide what to do. I suppose it’s useless to worry; you have to know all this already. If you aren’t my contact then how would you even know to call me here?”
There’s a pause on the other end, silence stretching into seconds. The back of your neck prickles with foreboding. “Hello? Are you still there? I-”
The agent interrupts you, speaking quietly and a little out of breath. What he says doesn’t make any sense.
“Suzie gave it to you? I don’t know any Suzie. Why would she give you my number?”
You rush over to your jacket, yanking the Guide from the inner pocket. A quick file search for ‘Suzie’ comes up negative; so does ‘Susan’, ‘Suzanne’, and anything starting with the letters SUZ. The agent is obviously lying, but why? Jesus, who have you been talking to all this time if not your primary contact?
You can hear them breathing over the phone; the rasping so remarkably close they may as well be in the same room. “Who is this? What do you want?”
Silence on the other end of the line. “Hello? Answer me, damn it! Who is this?”
More silence…and then the Guide vibrates in your hand, alarm startling in the empty room. The search icon is blinking.
Ianto twists in the seat to get a better look at his shoulder without taking off his seatbelt or his suit jacket. There’s a little bit of blood on his shirt but it doesn’t hurt all that badly. He loosens his tie and undoes the first few buttons, peeling his collar away to see the wound more closely.
The driver glances away from the road, eyes zeroing in on the shadow of Ianto’s clavicle. “Normally I don’t mind when a handsome man undresses next to me but this time I - Hey. You’re bleeding. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, it’s just a scratch, that’s all.”
“How bad?”
Ianto straightens his clothes as best he can. The man next to him looks worried. “It’s just a scratch. I’ve had worse, believe me.”
“Still, best let me take a look at that when we get to the Hub. Weevils live in the sewers; a little scratch can get infected easily.”
Ianto feels himself go pale. “This is a weevil scratch? Those things that live under the streets of Cardiff?”
“Forgotten your daring rescue already, huh? That was fast.”
“Yup. Sorry. I have this condition. It’s like short term memory loss, only it’s permanent. The doctors say I have a threshold of about twenty minutes or so before events start to fade. Nothing personal, I just…can’t help it.” There’s a twitch in the other man’s jaw; Ianto suspects he’s trying not to smile. “I’ve told you this before, haven’t I?”
The man grins, wide and flirtatious. “Once or twice. I used to consider myself unforgettable until you came along.”
“Sorry to disappoint. At least your jokes are still funny no matter how many times you tell them.”
“This is true.” He takes one hand off the wheel for Ianto to shake. The SUV doesn’t wobble off its course, but the trees whizzing by in the darkness beyond the windscreen are enough to make Ianto glad for the seat belt. “Captain Jack Harkness, Torchwood Three. That’s the third time I’ve introduced myself to you tonight, Ianto. You need to get some kind of note system or something.”
“As a matter of fact…” Ianto pulls the Guide from his inner jacket pocket only to find the screen cracked and empty. Fuck. He thumbs the power button twice, hoping, and nothing. Oh, fuck.
Jack glances quickly between Ianto and the road, alarmed by his rapid breathing. He squeezes Ianto’s knee with a huge hand; Ianto’s too distracted to worry about how steady the driving is this time. “Hey hey, take it easy. What’s wrong?”
“My PDA is broken. I can’t turn it on and I don’t know how to fix it. Jack, this is important! I need this to be working all the time. What am I going to do?”
“I have a technician on staff that makes Q look like a toddler with tinker toys. I’m sure she’ll be able to fix it.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I’ll put it on her desk with a note to work on it posthaste. She’s been coming in early recently so it should be ready by breakfast tomorrow.”
They drive in silence for a few streets, Ianto cradling the PDA and running his thumb over the spiderweb of cracks across the screen. It doesn’t bear thinking about what will happen if he can’t use the files on the Guide.
He inhales deeply, changing the subject as quick as he can. “So I got this scratch fighting a weevil? You know, I grew up in Cardiff and I never saw one until Dave Haverson showed me a file in London. I almost didn’t believe him, but Dave was part of the team researching them up on Level Nine. He theorized that they’re indigenous to England but were displaced underground when the land was settled. No one could convince him otherwise. He even dressed up like a weevil at the Halloween party, boiler suit and all.”
Jack turns the wheel sharply, beeping at an old woman crossing the street and Ianto swears he hears Bloody Torchwood! as they speed around her. Jack either doesn’t hear or doesn’t care, taking another corner just as fast as the first. “Dave sounds like a fun guy. Think he’d be interested in looking at this beauty when we’re done with her?”
“Probably not. Level Nine was overrun by Daleks during the invasion. I assume he was exterminated with everyone else.”
It’s quiet in the cab for a while. Jack actually stops at a red light, turning a little in his seat. “I’m sorry, Ianto. For upsetting you earlier.”
“I’m not upset. It’s just hard sometimes, not knowing what happened to my friends. I miss them.”
“You could look them up. Maybe one or two survived.”
He shrugs, movement pulling at the scratch. “The odds are against it. Besides, what would be the point? I’ll forget I did in twenty minutes and feel depressed for no reason. It’d just be a pain in the arse.”
The light turns green and Jack tightens his grip on the wheel. The muscles in his jaw work for a moment before he speaks. “I used to envy you, Ianto. Did you know that? No matter what happens you always get a fresh start. All that history gone in a moment. All that pain.”
Ianto turns the Guide in his hands. “I wish it were that simple, Jack. History is all I have. Never knowing what’s going to happen from one minute to the next; never being able to relax. It’s like being lost in the dark.”
The pain is brilliant for a moment, sparking behind his eyes and traveling down into his chest. The past was all he had; the present barely existed, and the future? The future was a joke. Everything could end tomorrow and Ianto wouldn’t know the difference. The world was so fucked up.
He takes a deep breath and thinks about the Doctor.
Soon. He’d find a companion soon.
He strokes the cracked screen a final time and hands it over to Jack, reluctantly. “Are you sure your technician can fix my Guide?”
“Tosh has fixed worse than this. She once widdled together a Carbonian matter modulator with a soldering iron, bungee cord, two sparkplugs, and an old calculator. She’s the best I’ve ever seen.”
“No offense, Jack, but I need this machine to work. It’s important.”
“I understand, Ianto. Try putting your faith outside yourself once in awhile.”
“Not happening. It’s hard to trust the world when I don’t have a place in it.”
He reaches across the gear stick to tap Ianto on the wrist. “Your tattoo says differently.”
It does, in fact, tell Ianto to Trust Torchwood. He supposes in Cardiff that means Jack. He clears his throat, staring out the windscreen at the passing dark. “I trust myself. I only rely on Torchwood because I told myself I can. That’s my handwriting.”
Jack’s quiet again, driving in circles for all Ianto recognizes the streets outside. Put some faith outside yourself.
Ruffling through his jacket reveals a small notepad and pen in the left side pocket, just as he knew it would. “Each pocket I have means something different thing. The inside jacket pocket is for the PDA. I input everything in there, from the people I meet to what I had for breakfast. When there’s no time for that or there’s something I need to attend to right away I put a note in my right trouser pocket.” He scribbles down a quick reminder and hands the paper to Jack, who smiles.
Guide broken – DON’T PANIC – getting fixed.
“You forgot one thing.” Jack slows the SUV to a stop outside a parking garage and steals Ianto’s pen. His handwriting is smaller than Ianto’s, a little more neat.
Ianto smiles back and tucks the paper in his trouser pocket. “There. Now there won’t be any confusion.”
Jack laughs. “Yeah, until you take off your pants.”
“Mm. And are you so certain you can get my pants off, Captain?”
He growls, smile crooking up into a smirk. “Oh, I love a good challenge.”
A tutorial begins automatically when you open the program, explaining the altered blood cells it’s programmed to search for and how Torchwood modified the PDA to scan every human within an expanding radius for them. You skip through it as quickly as possible, hands shaking, and the results of the latest search spill onto the screen. It’s positive.
There’s a companion nearby. The odds of actually finding one… The address on the Guide is familiar, an out of the way spot no one would think to look. It’s perfect, it’s all so perfect.
Your hand skirts the edge of the new tattoo on your thigh. It’s time.
Someone is talking in your ear, asking what’s wrong. “I’m sorry,” you tell them politely. “I’ll have to call you back.”
Ianto’s just beaten his high score when he hears it: a growling howl, followed by a crash.
The world outside the SUV is dark and motionless; he can’t see two feet beyond the glow of the Guide. He holds the screen against his chest and rolls down the window. Silence, though he can just make out a tiny copse of trees in the distance. The yard has that regimented planned look of all urban parks and he can only assume he’s in a city somewhere; maybe it’s just-
There’s a shout from the trees and another low growl.
Definitely not an average mugging, then.
He looks about the cab of the SUV for a weapon of some kind only to come up short. Duct tape and a ham radio? Sure. Fancy computer stations? Oh, yeah. Something actually useful? Unfortunately not. There is a tyre iron in the glove box that will do in a pinch, though.
Ianto tucks the Guide into his jacket pocket and opens the car door experimentally. Nothing ambushes him from either side - and really, what were the chances of Velociraptors in Europe? He’s seen too many films.
His shoes sink into the damp earth of the lawn, masking his approach. There’s a man on the ground behind the trees and another figure leaning over him, head large and misshapen, moonlight gleaming off its fangs. It looks… well, it looks a little like the weevil Dave showed him in London, though somewhat uglier than the photos.
Ianto tightens his grip on the tyre iron and creeps slowly forward. The weevil doesn’t notice, crouched low over its kill. Ianto doesn’t look too closely, but the ground is darker around the body on the grass and he can only assume the worst. He takes a deep breath and swings the iron, rounders-style, right at the monster’s head.
It’s the perfect ambush…except the corpse sits up with a gasping shout and knocks the weevil back a step, the iron glancing off its shoulder instead of its skull. Ianto can only assume this is karma for kicking puppies in a former life or something equally horrible.
The weevil turns and slaps the tyre iron right out of his hands, roaring mightily. Its breath is rancid and Ianto ducks both from it and a second swipe of claws. There aren’t any good-sized branches or rocks on the ground (damn park service) so he punches it in the ribs. Or tries to – the body shot has no effect other than to make his knuckles sore. A kick to the knee scuffs his shoe. He’s not even sure if weevils have genitalia, so that option’s out; besides, he really doesn’t want to make it any madder than he already has.
He’s debating the merits of running back to the SUV when the corpse, now looking much more spry, jumps on the weevil’s back. “Get the can!”
“The what?”
“The can!” The weevil’s shoulders are too wide to reach behind itself and claw the nuisance off its back, but that doesn’t mean it’s not trying. The man looks a little nauseous from the spinning. “The aerosol can! It rolled over to the left! Spray it in the face!”
Ianto runs to the left and sure enough, nestled in a pile of twigs and lawn clippings is a small black spray can. He dodges as close to the furious weevil as he can, ducking the flailing claws and depressing the nozzle right in the alien’s eyes. He holds it down, emptying what surely must be the entire can into its nasal cavity. After a long moment the weevil lets out a mournful wail and falls –
- right onto Ianto, taking the once-corpse for the ride. The three fall with a mighty oof.
He lays there, trying to breathe through the smell without breaking any ribs from the weight of the creature, and the absurdity of the situation comes upon him. There’s a weevil snoring on his chest in the middle of Cardiff because Ianto maced it in the face. Ianto. In its face. And he actually enjoyed it.
There’s a matching laughter above him as the man-corpse helpfully removes his portion of the weight and pushes the behemoth off his rescuer. He offers Ianto a hand, the disorienting sensation of being yanked back to his feet only adding to Ianto’s hilarity. He takes a step forward to balance himself and the two men end up standing very close to one another, chests touching with each gulp of air. Ianto loosens his grip but the stranger doesn’t let go.
Ianto’s Maiden Fair really is attractive in a retro movie sort of way. Gorgeous smile, beautiful eyes, perfectly tousled hair. He smells infinitely better than the body on the ground, like musk and sex and the most delicious things ever. Ianto licks his lips and leans just a little closer, breathing deeply.
Their noses brush. The man’s eyelids flutter…and he takes a step back, finally releasing Ianto’s wrist. He walks over to contemplate the unconscious weevil. “I thought I told you to stay in the car.”
“Yes, because you were obviously handling things so well on your own.”
He looks up, affronted. “My gun seems to be missing. You wouldn’t know anything about that would you?”
A gun certainly would have been handy five minutes ago. “Nope. I don’t think they let people like me carry guns.”
“I certainly hope not. Remind me to frisk you later.”
“Promises, promises.”
The man’s eyebrow lifts, the corner of his mouth slowly curling into a smirk. Ianto joins him next to the creature. If he breathes through his mouth the smell isn’t so bad. “I’m assuming this is an alien hell-bent on the destruction of the human race?”
“Got it in one.”
“Mm. A heavy alien.”
“Uh…” They turn as one to stare at the distance between the weevil and the SUV. It seems a lot farther than it did a few moments ago.
“Still wishing I stayed in the car?” Ianto loosens his tie, surprised it remained snug during the fight with the weevil. “All right then. Heads or tails?”
Ianto winds up carrying the heavier shoulders, as the stranger still looks a little pale from his brush with near-death. It’s hard work, the adrenaline slowly disappearing from his body and leaving his muscles aching with the weight. He’s pretty sure there’s something seriously wrong with his shoulder but can’t very well drop his end of the weevil to check. The field teams never mentioned this part of the job during lunch break in the cafeteria.
Still, it could have been worse. He eyes the man struggling with the alien’s legs. “I thought this thing had killed you at first. You okay?”
“Just knocked the wind out of me, that’s all.” They navigate over a small hill and reach the SUV, dropping the weevil and stretching out their backs. The man already looks a little better; there’s color in his cheeks and his eyes aren’t so sunken.
Ianto raises his hand, a little embarrassed over how out of breath he is. “I’m Ianto Jones, by the way. Not sure if we’ve been introduced.”
“Couple of times, yeah. Jack Harkness. Look me up in your thingy while I clear out the back. There’s only so many times I can introduce myself to you in a day.”
Ianto doesn’t bother getting out the Guide; TORCHWOOD is written along the side of the SUV, clearly visible in a patch of moonlight - and who else but Torchwood would be hunting weevils in the middle of the night? Jack Harkness, though… Ianto’s heard of him. Harkness was a favorite of the London rumor mill. He wonders if any of the stories are true.
The one about his arse certainly seems to be, Ianto thinks, enjoying the view as Jack climbs into the back of the SUV.
“See something you like?” Jack calls from the depths, the sounds of heavy boxes being pushed around. Ianto is immediately guilty at having been caught looking, hopeful that the darkness is enough to cover his blush.
He thinks about what Lisa would have to say about Ianto checking out some strange man in the woods, then smiles at the obvious answer. “Look but don’t touch. I’m kind of…with someone.”
There’s a pause, something metallic catching the light inside the car. Ianto can’t see anything from where he’s standing but a moment later there’s the snap of a lid coming down. The boxes move again and Jack comes crawling out of the SUV, brushing his hands together and eyeing Ianto nastily. “And here I thought Lisa was dead. Doesn’t that free you up to play the field?”
Ianto’s breath catches, choked by the cruelty of the man he rescued. “London’s rumors never said anything about you being a heartless bastard. I see they left the important parts out.”
Jack just stares at him, eyes cold. Ianto straightens his shoulders, fists and teeth clenching. “Yes, the woman I love is dead, Captain. Thank you for reminding me. That doesn’t mean I’ve given up hope of ever seeing her again or that her memory means nothing to me. I’m sure a man like you has no idea what that even means. You’ve never loved anyone your whole life.”
He storms off, circling the front of the SUV and slamming the passenger door behind him. Not the best exit strategy, seeing how Jack has the keys, but he’ll be damned if he helps the bastard anymore. Let him figure out how to get the weevil secure in the boot without Ianto.
A few minutes of grunting and rocking the car later, a winded Jack returns to the cab. He looks at Ianto, who refuses to meet his gaze, and turns the ignition key without saying a word. As they drive out of the park and onto the streets of Cardiff, Ianto refuses to consider the idea that he has no control over where Jack is taking them
His shoulder’s not as sore now but he should still make sure it’s not too serious. He doesn’t want to give Jack any more ammunition, so he twists in the seat to get a better look at it without taking off his seat belt or his suit jacket.
It’s hard to dress properly with your hands shaking like they are but you can’t very well go looking for the companion in your underwear. If you wait too long then he’ll leave the location and you’ll have to track him down again. There’s a wrinkled suit thrown haphazardly over a chair that will have to do. Hopefully it was due to be hung up and not dry-cleaned.
In your rush to put on trousers you nearly miss the crinkle of paper in the right pocket. It’s an old post-it note, crumpled into a ball.
DON’T trust Torchwood
There’s more writing on the back: T3 can change Guide remotely. Lied to you. Don’t trust Guide - read diary for info!
The note doesn’t make any sense. You haven’t kept a diary since before the Battle. Have you?
Click to read on…
