Organising the transfer was easy. Torchwood One was in chaos and everyone was leaving, rats scurrying to flee the sinking ship. Amidst all the paperwork needed to move employees and technology from one country to another, it was easy to get the necessary signatures on the right forms.
Stabilising Lisa's condition was harder. Tracking down pieces of Cyberman units wasn't difficult but piecing them together was. He'd never had the head for schematics that Lisa did. ("The universe has a plan, Ianto," she used to say, bent over some new object or sketching lines and diagrams into his skin. She couldn't always explain why a gadget worked, but she could reverse engineering anything that came across her desk and if you built it precisely from her schematic, it would work.).
He'd tried, puzzled, and even buzzed and drowsy from the combination of pain and painkillers, she had to correct him.
(He asked he how she knew what to do, and then wished he hadn't. Her eyes had gone wide and scared, as terrified as the night her father had a stroke, and she said, "I don't know." He forced himself to smile and press his lips against her too-cold skin, then said, "You never could explain it.")
But Ianto did what he did best: he organised the details. Right forms, right stamps, right signatures. Rented a place in Cardiff, packed up their flat in London and sent letters to various friends and relatives, explaining that he'd been transfered to Wales. Then he packed Lisa inside metal, inside boxes marked "Torchwood Three, Immediate Delivery" and hoped that the medication wasn't too much (prayed it wasn't too little).
Then he boarded a plane -- pen, phone and wallet in his pocket -- and knocked on the door of Torchwood Three at precisely seven in the morning.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
zvi and
Because I shouldn't be writing this
Date: 2007-02-06 05:47 am (UTC)Organising the transfer was easy. Torchwood One was in chaos and everyone was leaving, rats scurrying to flee the sinking ship. Amidst all the paperwork needed to move employees and technology from one country to another, it was easy to get the necessary signatures on the right forms.
Stabilising Lisa's condition was harder. Tracking down pieces of Cyberman units wasn't difficult but piecing them together was. He'd never had the head for schematics that Lisa did. ("The universe has a plan, Ianto," she used to say, bent over some new object or sketching lines and diagrams into his skin. She couldn't always explain why a gadget worked, but she could reverse engineering anything that came across her desk and if you built it precisely from her schematic, it would work.).
He'd tried, puzzled, and even buzzed and drowsy from the combination of pain and painkillers, she had to correct him.
(He asked he how she knew what to do, and then wished he hadn't. Her eyes had gone wide and scared, as terrified as the night her father had a stroke, and she said, "I don't know." He forced himself to smile and press his lips against her too-cold skin, then said, "You never could explain it.")
But Ianto did what he did best: he organised the details. Right forms, right stamps, right signatures. Rented a place in Cardiff, packed up their flat in London and sent letters to various friends and relatives, explaining that he'd been transfered to Wales. Then he packed Lisa inside metal, inside boxes marked "Torchwood Three, Immediate Delivery" and hoped that the medication wasn't too much (prayed it wasn't too little).
Then he boarded a plane -- pen, phone and wallet in his pocket -- and knocked on the door of Torchwood Three at precisely seven in the morning.
***