TW Fic: Stones and Ripples
Oct. 9th, 2007 11:37 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
out_thereTitle: Stones and Ripples
Fandom: Torchwood
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit.
Summary: Considering that it appeared to be run by a man with no consideration of paperwork, bureaucracy or meticulous thinking, Torchwood Three was the most logical place to hide.
Notes: Set pre-S1. The quote comes from Ani DiFranco’s song, Studying Stones, which was listened to many times while writing this and remains a perfect angsty-Ianto song. Thank you to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
gothams3rdrobin for the Britpick and ekaterinn for offering to poke me with a stick to get this finished (and for having a great sense of pacing).
***
Trying to keep my face blank
As a stone that just sank
Until not a ripple remains
***
Ianto's first impressions of Captain Jack Harkness -- long before he met the man and discovered his almost palpable charisma -- could be summed up in two words: rebellious and intelligent. The second was almost a given. Torchwood didn't suffer fools gladly, and anyone who couldn't keep up was quickly left behind, missing the relevant memories.
It was the first one that was important. Rebels didn't pay enough attention to the rules, to systems and order. They didn't notice minor deviations and irregularities.
Harkness's employee file -- the part that wasn't classified -- was a half-page detailing his role at Torchwood Three that told Ianto very little, but Ianto could read between the lines of the haphazard case reports. They were collaborations thrown together by different agents, pieced together like a jigsaw puzzle: too much detail here, not enough there; a certain flair when it came to describing alien technology followed by cold, martial description of physical encounters.
Torchwood Three was an indulgence. Ianto couldn't verify it but he was sure that Torchwood Three was a combination of bribe and thank-you gift to a man who was well-known and barely documented.
Harkness had personally campaigned for a division in Cardiff to watch a rift that Torchwood One deigned "negligible". He ran it with a skeleton crew, only half the staff he had funding for, and with the broadly defined purpose of averting danger and protecting civilians.
Considering that it appeared to be run by a man with no consideration of paperwork, bureaucracy or meticulous thinking, Torchwood Three was the most logical place to hide.
***
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 location 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, sketching lines and diagrams into his skin. She couldn't always explain why a gadget worked, but she could reverse engineer anything that came across her desk. If you built it precisely from her schematic, it would work.)
He'd tried to puzzle it through himself but Lisa, buzzed and drowsy from the combination of pain and painkillers, still had to correct him constantly.
(He had asked 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." So he'd 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. Correct forms, correct stamps, correct signatures. Sorted out a place in Cardiff, packed up their flat in London and sent letters to various friends and relatives, explaining that he'd been transferred 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 got in his car -- pen, phone and wallet in his pocket, small suitcase in the back seat -- and drove. He knocked on the door of Torchwood Three at precisely seven in the morning.
***
Three sharp knocks, then Ianto waits. He doesn't look above him, or over his shoulder to the CCTV cameras recording with objective, unforgiving eyes. Instead, he faces the door and lets himself be watched.
The door opens to reveal Captain Jack Harkness, flashing a smile as white as Ianto's shirt. Ianto had expected Harkness would be the one to greet him -- possibly to make him jump through hoops like a show pony, Ianto's not certain -- but he hadn't expected Harkness to do it in a thin t-shirt with suspenders hanging loose against his hips.
The files had given Ianto some warning. A few blurry ID shots, enough to have an idea of body shape, dark hair, strong jaw. Discreetly talking to other Torchwood staff -- chatting of being homesick, of moving closer to family -- had left him anticipating a larger than life American: handsome, easy to talk to, good with a gun, gregarious and outgoing.
He'd expected a lot of things, but not the slow gaze Harkness slide down Ianto's frame.
Ianto had thought he was too tired, too worried, too numb, to be surprised by anything these days. But in the back of his head, there's a small, shocked voice saying: he's checking me out. For a moment, it strikes Ianto as highly absurd.
He pushes the amusement away before it shows on his face. "I'm Ianto Jones, sir."
He offers his hand and Harkness takes it, shakes it twice and holds it an extra moment before releasing. "Captain Jack Harkness. Call me Jack. It's nice to meet you, Ianto Jones."
"I'm the new transfer."
"And where, Ianto Jones, have you transferred from?" Jack smiles smugly, like there's a joke that only he gets, or as if he's just finished undressing Ianto in his imagination.
It's not the first time someone's flirted with him, not by a wide mark, but it's so obvious that it makes Ianto pause. No, obvious isn't the right word. Brazen might be better. Jack hasn't said anything untoward but he's certainly flirting, optimistic and unashamedly trying to charm.
It's an unexpected and unwelcome complication. The last thing Ianto's looking for is personal attention. He keeps his face blank and says, "London, sir."
"And why would you transfer here?"
"Closer to home," Ianto says, well aware that he's still standing on a public street; for all of Jack's smiles and heated glances, he hasn't invited Ianto inside.
"I had noticed the accent -- rather delightful, by the way -- but unfortunately for me, I think you're in the wrong place." Jack steps back from the door, opening it fully and waving a hand towards the small counter, the stacks of tourism brochures and the rather hopeless beaded curtain. "As you can see, this isn't an operation that needs extra staff. Regardless of how good you'd look behind that counter."
Blinking, Ianto ignores the compliments and steps past Jack. Once the door closes behind them, he elaborates, "I'm the new transfer from Torchwood One."
To Ianto's relief, Jack's expression sharpens into something just shy of professionalism. "I thought all staff were being transferred to Torchwood Two."
"As I said, I wanted to be closer to home. Also, after due consideration, it was decided that Torchwood Three has become large enough to warrant administrative staff."
Jack grins. "I've been sent my very own secretary?"
"According to the job description, I'm your executive assistant," Ianto corrects mildly, wondering if he should have added 'sir' to that sentence. A man who calls himself Captain -- without ever stating how he's earned the title -- will probably appreciate a clear sign of respect.
"A secretary's job is to answer the phone, make coffee and look pretty around the office. How is your job any different?"
"I also file, sir."
Jack laughs. "Executive assistant it is."
Sauntering to the other side of the counter, Jack throws another of those too white, too toothy smiles over his shoulder but doesn't actually ask Ianto to follow, so Ianto stays where he is. With a gentle clatter of beads, Jacks disappears out the back, leaving Ianto alone.
Ianto doesn't look around, doesn't pry. He could, but he knows from the blueprints held at Torchwood Tower -- at what used to be Torchwood Tower, he mentally amends -- that the ground level of this building is pure decoy, open to the public; there's nothing of any interest kept here. He'd also lay good money on the fact that Jack is standing back there watching him on the monitors and checking Ianto's explanations. It will all ring true: everything's gone through the proper channels, after all.
Ianto sets his shoulders and waits.
In a matter of minutes, Jack returns. Now there's a long military coat, hanging open, and a dark blue shirt, completely buttoned and tucked in. The shoulder insignia aren't familiar -- three pale grey lines; American, maybe? -- and when Jack turns, the red braces can still be seen.
"Right now, scrambled eggs and a strong cup of coffee sounds heavenly to me." Jack asks, dropping something into his pocket. Ianto notices a watch on one wrist and some kind of leather band on the other. "Hungry?"
"Not particularly," Ianto replies, almost honestly. He doesn't think he could stomach food today. "I had hoped to meet the rest of the team first."
"It's ten past seven. You'll be waiting an hour before anyone else shows up. At least." Jack opens the front door and Ianto realises he won't be seeing the rest of Torchwood Three any time soon. He's sure the paperwork was immaculate, every form submitted, but he mentally reviews them, trying to anticipate what's drawn Jack's interest.
"There's a great little cafe down the road," Jack says, flourishing an arm towards the street like a girl on a game show. "My treat."
Ianto nods and follows.
***
"So," Jack says, swirling the coffee in his cup and pushing the now empty plate away, "what did you actually do in Torchwood One?"
Ianto looks around the place. It's cosy and intimate, booths tucked into corners and lighting not too bright. There are men in suits having coffee, students in faded jeans sharing a serving of chips. In short: they're surrounded by civilians.
For the entire meal -- the last twenty-three minutes to be precise -- Jack's wallowed in small talk, discussing Cardiff, the weather, the hassles of moving. Nothing precise, nothing specific, and Ianto had started to wonder if he was worrying needlessly, if Jack Harkness really had invited him out to breakfast for no other reason than to flirt with the new guy.
"Are you sure this is the best place to discuss this?" Ianto asks calmly, raising his tea cup to his lips and breathing in steam.
"Sure. Crowded cafes are the best. Nobody cares enough to eavesdrop." Jack smiles, but he sounds perfectly serious. "I always thought that World War Three must have been planned in crowded cafes, surrounded by people who didn't care but should have."
Ianto doesn't know what to say to that, so he sips his tea.
"Anyway, you didn't answer my question. What did you actually do?"
"General office work," Ianto says, and Jack circles a hand, gesturing for him to elaborate. He tells his life in partial truths. "Filing, typing, answering phones. Taking messages, answering memos. The usual stuff."
Jack's eyes are surprisingly bright in the softened light. "That's it?"
"Dictation. Taking statements. Preparing reports." Ianto shrugs. "Making coffee."
"I hate to say this so soon after we've met, Ianto," Jack says, placing both elbows on the table and leaning across, "but I don't believe you."
He's not sure how he does it, but he manages to keep his voice level even as the adrenaline spikes in his veins. "Really?"
"I'm pretty sure you're lying to me."
Ianto quickly takes stock of the situation. Eyes narrowed but still grinning, Jack looks intrigued and amused. If he knew what Ianto was lying about, if he even had suspicions, everything in Harkness's case reports suggests Ianto would be put in a cell first and asked questions later. Therefore, Ianto thinks to himself, stressing the words carefully, he doesn't know.
He doesn't know.
"I don't understand, sir."
"Want to know why?"
Ianto swallows a mouthful of tea and nods.
Leaning back, Jack stretches an arm along the chair and manages to take up far more space than necessary. "Your employee file describes you as 'admin staff'. Two words, five letters each. That's not the way Torchwood works."
"Oh," Ianto says and does not grin, does not laugh. He'd forgotten -- amidst the moving, amidst placing his girlfriend inside a packing crate marked "Delicate: do not disturb", amidst telling her family that her body had never been found -- he'd forgotten the older lies. They feel so unimportant, something that only mattered in another life.
But Captain Jack Harkness has picked up on it -- such a small thing -- and if he wants to drag the so-called truth into the light, if he thinks understanding this means he understands Ianto, can summarise and disregard Ianto as a threat, so be it.
Sacrifice a small lie to hide a big one: a bargain. But admit it too easy and more suspicions would be raised. So Ianto turns the cup in his hands and waits for Jack to spell it out.
"For all the good that Torchwood does, we're very fond of titles. The more impressive sounding the better. We don't have filing clerks, we have Document Relocation Specialists. And the longer the title, the less important the job."
"You do realise that technically you're the 'Managing Director of the Welsh Regional Branch of Her Majesty's Torchwood', right?"
Jack huffs in amusement. "That's only technically. My real title is Boss. Four letters. Lets you know how essential I really am."
"I'm sure it says that on your business cards."
"I don't have business cards. Too impersonal." Tilting his head, Jack waits for a reaction. Ianto makes sure he doesn't let anything show. "The really interesting thing, Ianto Jones, is that I have a fairly high level of clearance. And your employment history says 'admin staff'. Precisely what job is so hidden that I don't have clearance to see it?"
Ducking his head, Ianto stares into his cup. If Jack's as smart as Ianto believes -- and he must be, because Torchwood Three, for being short-staffed and barely professional, consistently manages to succeed, to puzzle out artefacts and minimise dangers -- he'll work it out without Ianto's help. That would be best.
So Ianto doesn't look up, doesn't make eye-contact, and when Jack says slowly, sounding so self-satisfied, "SPIDA," Ianto glances across the table top and asks, "What? Where?"
It's an old joke. A department-wide joke, really, but it's a useful first reaction.
It usually throws people off, but Jack just chuckles, a warm, pleased sound that uncoils something low in Ianto's spine. "Oh, that's cute. That's very cute. But I wasn't talking about arachnids, and you know it."
Ianto, despite his better judgement, looks up and meets Jack's gaze. "It always was a stupid acronym."
"The full name wasn't much better. Specific Identification Assignment? It sounds like some transgender elective surgery." Jack rolls his eyes -- exaggerating the gesture, making it a performance -- and Ianto catches himself before he smiles. This conversation isn't about relaxing, he reminds himself, it's about creating an impression.
"We're classified as admin staff. Otherwise, it makes it difficult to transfer to other areas."
"No one likes working beside the guy who might retcon you and take away the last few years of your life," Jack says lightly, but there's something sharp in the twist of his mouth as he says it. That attitude is the precise reason the department is classified.
Ianto's always been a stickler for details, for getting it right, so he corrects Jack even though it serves no purpose. "We don't actually work that way. We don't transfer staff into a department to retcon agents. Generally, they transfer to us."
"I'd heard that," Jack says slowly.
Ianto waits for him to fill the silence. If Jack has questions, Ianto will answer them, but there's no need for him to volunteer information.
Jack, however, is surprisingly patient. He drinks his coffee and watches Ianto with a thoughtful expression.
Ianto lifts his teacup, takes a mouthful, swallows and then places it back on the saucer. As he does so, he splits his concentration between keeping each movement smooth and steady, and keeping his face blankly composed. He interlocks his hands and rests his wrists on the table and, with the thumb that's hidden inside the huddle of fingers, digs the nail into the flesh of his palm. The pain gives him something to focus on, something other than the way Jack is unashamedly studying him.
Ianto lets his gaze drop to Jack's shoulder, to the unfamiliar insignia, lines of pale grey against the charcoal wool. He tries not to think about Lisa -- doesn't let himself imagine where she is right now, if she's awake, if she knows what will happen to both of them if this deception is discovered -- and instead focuses on what those three silver stripes could mean.
"Call it a character flaw," Jack says, interrupting Ianto's thoughts, "but I'm still curious."
"About what, sir?"
"About what you used to do. How long were you there?"
"Three years, eight months."
Jack raises an eyebrow. "I thought SPIDA had a faster turn-over than that."
"As a general rule," Ianto agrees with a nod.
"But you liked it enough to stay?" Again, there's a sharpness to his smile, a dangerous edge to the charm. "I'm wondering what type of person enjoys a job like that."
"Someone detail-oriented," Ianto says quickly and swiftly regrets it when Jack's expression tightens further. He knows the opinion most Torchwood staff have of SPIDA. It was considered akin to the Gestapo, a cause of paranoia that only answered to the highest internal authorities. Given that all Torchwood departments were beyond the reach of external authorities, it seemed a ridiculous reason to fear an entire department, but he knows he shouldn't joke about it. People tend to find it... disquieting. "I like knowing that everything is in its proper place. That things are settled and cases are closed. That every t is crossed and every i dotted."
"Go on," Jack says and there's no mistaking that it's an order.
"I wasn't a field agent. The most I knew of the retconned agents was through employee files and CCTV surveillance. My job was administration: preparing documents and files." Jack seems to be waiting for something more, so Ianto obliges him with the truth. "People don't remember every minute of every day, they remember broad ideas and occasional moments. It was my responsibility to provide the cover story and the evidence to prove it."
"Give me an example."
"You can't take away years of someone's life without replacing it. You can't leave someone without memories, so you tell them a story. You can tell them that they spent the last two years as a dentist in Wrexham and moved to Cardiff to set up a new practice and under the right conditions, they'll accept it. But after a while, they'll start to wonder and doubt it, and look for proof. So you make sure there's a cardboard box of old appointment diaries, occasional letters from patients, old invoices lost amongst books and mementos. We live our lives in clutter, surrounded by bits and pieces of everything we've known. My job was to create that clutter, make it random and unorganised, make it believable."
Taking a breath, Ianto looked away from Jack's too-handsome features and too-interested expression, and wondered if he'd said too much, exposed himself too easily. If it would have been better to lie and create a less heartfelt excuse. But he knows that the art to a good story, to a convincing lie, is to offer the truth as well.
"You took it quite seriously, didn't you?"
"It was a serious job, sir."
***
It was a serious job that entailed performing important tasks. They'd been the ones to keep an eye on ex-agents, to ensure that no matter how they'd left -- terminated for inappropriate use of technology; resigning over the inability to perform necessary tasks; walking out after seeing too many hidden threats, too much blood, too much knowledge of what was really waiting out there -- they were protected. That as much as any other British citizen, they slept safe and their worries were "Will she call me back?" not "Will I die today?"
But that didn't mean they'd been funereal. They'd had Monday mornings where nothing went right and Wednesday afternoons with almost empty inboxes. There had been Thursdays spent in the meeting room with Dave and Nick, all three of them clicking on laptops, competing for the most realistic photos and wagering rounds of drinks.
The current agent -- his case file was numbered AR924K-1, so Dave had christened him Archibald because you couldn't yell encouragements across a table using an agent's actual name -- had been given an achingly normal back-story of middle-management at a stationery firm and all the essential work was done. But Charmaine in HR was looking for performance reviews, so the three of them had barricaded themselves within the meeting room until they could safely depart for the pub.
"You're never going to make that shot usable," Dave was saying, peering over Nick's shoulder. "It's a bad angle, and it's grainy."
"But look at the expression on his face." Nick pulled the picture up on the shared projector, painting the white wall with CCTV footage of a man -- tall, thin, blonde hair parted to the side, lean face of a racehorse -- looking over his shoulder to snarl something behind him. "It's priceless."
Nick and his enthusiasm for badly taken, clearly amateur photos was well known. Sometimes, it was even helpful.
"Why would anyone keep a photo like that?"
Ianto looked up from his game of Solitaire. Nick and Dave were far better at manipulating graphics, so he already knew that he'd be paying for the first round. "Maybe he didn't mean to keep it. It happened to fall in the back of a book somewhere. The type of thing he'll throw out after he finds it."
Nick raised both brows and the white of his eyes stood out against the burnt-caramel of his skin. "The type of thing taken by a bitchy ex, maybe?"
"Oh," Dave said, settling behind his computer again and flashing fingers across the keyboard, "there was a mention in the history. An ex-wife. Left the country. Vicious divorce but no children."
"So give it the personal touch," Ianto said, staring at his black nine and willing it to become red. This was Torchwood: sometimes, if you wished hard enough, things changed because you wanted it so badly; sometimes, like on Level 17, entire teams changed into lizards. They still weren't sure what had caused that. "We must have a record of the handwriting they're using for her. Like..."
"Proof that you're precisely as photogenic as you've always claimed?"
"I was thinking of something simpler," Ianto said, looking over to the projection where Nick was replacing the background with a hotel balcony showing an overcast sky mixed with the concrete grey of other hotels. "'Truly your best side.' Sharp, simple."
"Nasty," Nick added. "How the boss thinks you're the nice one, Ianto, I'll never understand."
Ianto smiled as sweetly as he could.
Dave rolled his eyes. "It's only because he fixed the coffee machine. And the photocopier. And lied to Hubble's wife about where he was."
"I thought he was at a meeting," Ianto objected, not at all proud of his part in it. "That's what his diary said."
"He was in a meeting," Nick said, leering. "He was meeting Cheryl from the mail room in a hotel for the afternoon."
"It's still the reason he likes you," Dave said. Then he let the subject matter drop as Nick brought up the final proofs on the wall. There was a moment of quiet appreciation. By the background, it must have been a holiday; judging by the suit the guy was wearing they'd been about to head off, maybe out to dinner, and by the annoyed expression, he wasn't happy about it. "Nick, my man, you have done it again."
Nick saved it and emailed it to the servers. "And you are both buying me drinks."
"Yeah, yeah," Dave said, looking at the time and closing his laptop. "But you know what I don't get? Why's it always holidays with you?"
"A certain proportion of photos are bad. People take lots of photos on holidays. Therefore, there's a higher chance of bad photos being developed from those taken away from home. And more encouragement to keep them, due to remembering trips even if the photos aren't flattering." Nick recited it calmly while packing up; all three of them knew he'd had to justify his love of bad holiday snaps before. "Besides, look at Ianto's holiday pictures. There's proof that terrible photography skills run wild away from home."
Ianto felt obliged to defend his honour, even if it was partially true. "My holiday photos aren't that bad. Some of them come out perfectly presentable," he said, as they left the meeting room and walked past the empty cubicles and occupied offices. Clearly, he wasn't including the over-exposed, the under-exposed, the badly framed or the blurred shots (that made up 90% of the developed films).
"No, the photos that Lisa sets up come out perfectly presentable. The photos that you take are..." Nick paused, but Dave was happy to fill the gap.
"Horrendous. Shocking. Completely without artistic merit and struggling to reach mediocrity."
"If I'm paying for the first round, I don't think I deserve this criticism." Ianto complained, pitching his tone quiet enough that they wouldn't draw attention from the rest of the office.
"Today, you do."
Dave grinned sharply. "We've decided to rename Thursdays. It's now Pick On Ianto Day."
"Every Thursday?" Ianto asked, and they nodded in unison. Ianto knew he'd dropped the last case on the pair of them -- so he could keep his anniversary plans with Lisa -- but he'd filed away the notes later, and brought in coffee, and thought he'd been forgiven. "Do I get to know why?"
"For telling Charmaine we hadn't completed this year's performance management plans yet."
"Oh," Ianto said, thinking of the seventeen pages of positively phrased sections. ("How I'm going to improve my work standard at Torchwood!" and "Things I can do to be a positive asset to my department!" were two that sprung to mind. He'd never understood why they all needed exclamation points.) "Then I'll try my best to bear it."
Nick laughed. "That's the spirit."
"As long as you don't start referring to it as POID, I think I'll manage."
***
In all the important ways, Jack was precisely the type of boss Ianto thought he would be. He was more flirtatious than expected (that first day, at the cafe, he'd stared until Ianto had had to clench his hands to stop fidgeting, stared until Ianto had asked, "Is there anything else, sir?" and Jack shook his head, saying, "I'm just taking a moment to enjoy the view.") but not quite as arrogant. He was impetuous in matters of action but lackadaisical when it came to mundane organisation. He liked leaving the small details in other people's hands.
Take, for instance, Ianto's introduction to the rest of Torchwood Three. He'd already known the names, ID photos, employee histories of each of them because he'd wanted to be as prepared as possible. It was just as well.
After announcing that everyone should get a chance to admire the new scenery, Jack gave the following introductions:
"Ianto Jones, this is Suzie Costello. She enjoys driving the SUV and likes alien weapons. Really likes them. Girl after my own heart.
"This is Toshiko Sato, resident IT genius. Never met a computer she couldn't have her wicked way with.
"This is Owen Harper--"
"Dr Owen Harper, thank you."
"-- who does the autopsies, medical reports and staff vaccinations."
No details of where they'd worked previously. No clear chain of command or separation of duties. Jack was the antipathy of systematic and methodical; in all the important ways, he was the perfect boss.
***
By lunchtime, Ianto realises an important thing: nobody cares about the filing but everybody cares about the coffee.
"It's an ongoing dispute," Toshiko says, pausing at the tiny, serviceable kitchen. After the introduction, Jack had had to take a call, Suzie Costello and Owen Harper had gone back to doing whatever they'd had planned for the morning, and Toshiko had shot a longing gaze towards a workstation crowded with computer monitors and then offered to show him around the hub.
It's a pity. Under different circumstances, Ianto would really like Toshiko with her detailed descriptions and sweet sense of humour.
But he can't change circumstances. He can't think of these people as possible friends. At best, he can consider them indifferent co-workers; at worst, he needs to be able to think of them as obstacles to be overcome.
He can, and does, smile when Toshiko tells an exhaustive tale of the coffee machine spraying coffee all over Jack after Suzie's attempt to install a timed shut-off switch (caused in part, Toshiko admits, by her own habit of turning the machine on and getting so absorbed in her work that she completely forgets to turn it off).
"Owen refuses to make coffee, since it's not directly stated in his job description," she says, "and Jack's banned Suzie from the machine. But if Jack ever offers you a cup of coffee, don't take it. He likes it strong enough to eat through concrete."
Toshiko turns to the machine, pouring a cup for each of them. Then Ianto hears it. Behind them, there's a clunk-clunk-clunk of metallic, thumping footsteps. Frozen still and terrified, it takes him a moment to separate facts from memories, to focus on the present instead of screams and fire and lumbering metal men. To hear the inconsistencies in the tread, the tapping of fingernails against a railing, the very human sound of humming.
When he turns to look behind him -- turns slowly, smile firmly in place -- Owen Harper is climbing the last few steel steps and walking into the room. "There'd better be enough there for another cup, Tosh."
Toshiko turns around, brows high in a look of almost comical distress as she looks at the empty jug in her hands. "You wanted a cup?"
"No," Owen replies sarcastically. From what Ianto's overheard so far, sarcastic is Harper's default tone. "I was asking for my own amusement."
"Oh," Toshiko says, looking from Owen to the two poured cups and back again.
"You're welcome to have mine," Ianto offers. "I can make another pot."
Owen doesn't thank anyone, but he reaches for the cup.
Ianto takes a moment to study the machine and then opens the cupboard below. It's a chaotic mess with plastic plates stacked on top of bags of sugar, tea-towels, kitchen cloths and a stack of printed emails dated last month. But eventually Ianto finds the coffee beans and filters.
He starts by emptying out the old grinds and cleaning the machine thoroughly.
"The secretary makes coffee," Owen says, default tone mixed with smug superiority. "Why am I not surprised?"
Toshiko's question is far more friendly. "You've done this before?"
"In university, I had a part-time job as a barista. It's a little like riding a bike."
"What? You fall off and scrape your knees?" Owen asks.
Ianto blinks. He doesn't say something sarcastic, he doesn't bite back. He needs these people to take him for granted, to accept and dismiss him. He needs them to ignore him. He can't afford to be rude or get anyone off-side.
Calmly he says, "I meant that it's hard to forget," and Owen rolls his eyes.
***
Lisa loved his coffee. After bleary, too-late nights at loud discos (her choice) or quieter, but no less alcoholic, nights at the pub (his choice), he'd wake up first and make her coffee.
"You're an angel," she'd say, eyes closed in caffeine-laden bliss and her full, sensuous lips lightly pursed. That expression -- that expression on his Lisa, still warm and relaxed from sleep, still naked under the rumpled covers -- inspired thoughts that were far from angelic.
***
Given Jack's supposed preference for strong coffee and the old tea set found in the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet, Ianto prepares the next pot with Jack in mind.
He finds an old metal tray in the back of the kitchen, the blue enamel chipped and a little dented. The tea set is off-white and old, with little blue Forget-Me-Nots painted in painstaking detail over the finely cracked china. He fills the sugar bowl and milk jug, places them on the tray -- blue and old, chipped and cracking, mismatched in a way that suits Torchwood Three. The whole hub seems cobbled together: old office furniture supporting brand-new technology; sleek metal doors and old moss-covered stones; the hum of computers and the slow drip-drip-drip of leaking pipes.
Ianto doesn't really fit here, but nothing really fits here. It's only here because it's useful and there's nowhere better for it to be. But it's convenient, he reminds himself, and it's the safest place for Lisa. Safe, of course, being a relative term at this point.
Even Ianto can hear the tinge of hysterical amusement to his thoughts. He clamps down hard on it.
Keeping his shoulders straight, his hands level, his expression friendly with just a hint of a smile, Ianto carries the tray to Jack's office.
Jack smiles when he sees it. For the first time, Ianto notices that Jack doesn't clench his jaw when he smiles. In fact, there's a slight gap between the two rows of teeth as if he's trying to make sure he shows the greatest surface area possible. It's the perfect smile of even, straight, white teeth. Ianto wonders if they've been capped.
Not that it makes any difference.
"You know," Jack says, grin widening impossibly further as Ianto places the tray down and Jack spots the sugar bowl and milk, "it's not really your job to make the coffee."
"I had the most relevant experience, sir."
"So you're more than just a pretty face," Jack says, helping himself to four --no, five -- spoonfuls of sugar. He splashes the milk in carelessly. "Well, a lot more."
There's a long, slow glance that accompanies that last remark, but Ianto ignores it. "I wanted to discuss filing, sir."
From the spark of interest in Jack's eye, from the raised eyebrow, in Jack's mind 'filing' is a codeword for something illicit and very fun. "Really?"
"The first of the deliveries from London should be coming tonight. They may need a designated archive area. Two or three rooms, I'd think."
"Isn't there a box of artefacts coming, things Torchwood Two didn't want?" Jack distractedly asks, raising the cup to his red lips.
The items aren't, strictly speaking, things Torchwood Two didn't want. After the chaos of battle, every able-bodied employee had been drafted to help clear the mess and pack away all extra-terrestrial evidence. Most had been in too much shock to be of much use, everyone partially frozen in their personal nightmares; it had been easy for Ianto to squirrel away particular items and produce separate inventory lists for the Welsh and Scottish contingents.
He'd tried to take items most likely to distract Suzie with her sharp eyes and Jack with his knowing grin. He needs the distraction.
"There are three deliveries in total, sir."
"Three boxes?"
"Three trucks," Ianto corrects.
"Trucks?" Jack's surprise seems genuine. Ianto's not sure if that means anything. "How much junk has Torchwood Two dumped on us?"
"The first one should be assorted alien artefacts. The second two should be filing cabinets and the archived files of Torchwood One."
"Is there a reason the files couldn't go to Torchwood Two?" Jack opens up his computer, flicking through something. Judging by the reflection in the glass beside him, Jack's looking through his emails, possibly trying to find when he agreed to this.
"It was thought best if the archives were split between two locations, sir. Less chance of losing everything," Ianto offers patiently.
"Sign up, protect the world against alien threats," Jack mutters, standing up and flicking the screen of his laptop closed. "They never said anything about filing."
***
It takes them an hour of trudging through the sub-basements to mark out rooms for the archives. The entire place is dark, half-lit, dusty -- makes Ianto think of second-hand bookstores and his grandpa's flat, hallways lined with bookcases, shelves full of knick-knacks, old half-broken and utterly worthless.
Ianto's fingers itch to clean it. Especially when he thinks of Torchwood One and their meticulous, spotless file rooms. Clean and well-lit, all sharp minimalist lines, filing cabinets built into the walls. It looked sterile and secure, and now it's a half-burned room full of debris.
***
The delivery truck pulled into what was, oddly enough, labelled the delivery dock. It's actually a small roller-door on the other side of the building, street-level, marked 'Deliveries Only'. It serves as the entrance to the SUV's underground parking.
("Kind of conspicuous to park it on the street," Jack had said. Ianto didn't point out that merely driving the clearly-labelled SUV was conspicuous.)
The first box Ianto unpacks is carefully labelled 'Unpack First'. It contains a small tractor beam, portable and easy to use, but unable to lift more than 40kg of weight -- 60kg if packed in a box of just the right size, maybe -- so generally useless for military purposes but very useful for moving filing cabinets.
Beneath that is what Ianto calls 'The Hovering Trolley'. It looks like a small boxing ring, roughly one metre square, a flat red base and four blue posts standing up from the corners. With its bright colours and moulded plastic appearance, it looks a like an upside-down children's table. Except one of the columns is pressed a certain way, a shimmering purple mesh appears between the four posts, like the ropes on a boxing ring. It's a low-level force field, for all that Torchwood refused to officially call it that.
(If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, Ianto's inclined to call it a damn force field.)
A certain twist on another column and it hovers, weightless in the air and easy to push. Again, perfect for unpacking.
Jack gives him a look as he pulls the items out and quickly assembles them. "That was very convenient."
"Best to be prepared, sir," Ianto says amenably.
Reaching into the Styrofoam packing (alien technology, advanced computer systems and dazzling weaponry have all been mastered by Torchwood but the idea of environmentally friendly packing bamboozles them), Ianto pulls out a pair of gravity gloves. They look like they were made of black leather but feel cold to the touch; they seem to use the same technology as the gravity clasps, which were purloined by UNIT after the battle.
He pulls them on one at a time, flicking them on at the wrist and picking up a crate as if it was an oversized tissue-box. It's bulky but not heavy as he places it on the hovering trolley. Then he powers the trolley and starts pushing it.
Jack stands back. When Ianto pulled out the gravity gloves he'd taken a half-step forward, looked interested, then leaned back when it was clear Ianto had this under control. Shrugging, Jack pushes himself from the wall and starts following Ianto into the hub. "I'm feeling very unnecessary here."
"You could help me unpack, sir."
As they go, Jack calls out to the others, "Suzie, Owen, Tosh! Sub-basement, now."
Ianto fights the urge to roll his eyes. He didn't want an audience. He'd have preferred to only unpack with Jack; it's easier to gauge the man's reactions when he isn't playing to a crowd.
They get it down, open it up, and Ianto congratulates himself on labelling the crates. The most interesting things -- the things he'd hoped would grab their attention -- had been placed in the first one.
"What is this stuff?" Owen asks as Jack pries off the lid. Where he got the crowbar from, Ianto has no idea.
"Stuff UNIT shouldn't get their hands on," Suzie offers.
"Technically," Ianto says, "they're items that were considered still under current investigation by Torchwood offices and therefore not yet allowed to be released to UNIT's authority."
Owen snorts. "Yeah, whatever. Is there anything interesting?"
Jack rummages through the foam, spilling it over onto the dirty stone floor. Then he lets out a low wolf-whistle. "Oh, Ianto, and it's not even my birthday."
"What is it?" Tosh asks, intrigued.
"This," Jack says, pulling out a gun roughly the size of his forearm, a cross between Dirty Harry's magnum and Han Solo's blaster, "is a Villengard Destabilizer."
"In other words, it's a gun," Owen adds dryly.
"It's a gun. It's a really, really nice gun." Jack turns it over, angling it this way and that, looking at the sheen on the dark grey metal. He flicks three buttons in quick succession. "It would be so reassuring if people would store these things with the safety catch on. Who wants to reach for a weapon and have your arm dematerialised? Once it's gone, it's gone. You're not getting that limb back."
Ianto clamps down on his amusement, stopping his smile.
"Can I?" Suzie asks, grabby hands already reaching for it.
Jack passes it over. "Check out the casing. If we get a chance, have a look at the energy signatures, too. It's a classic. They don't make them like that anymore. I should know. These days they grow bananas."
"Anything else amongst all that eco-responsible packing?" Owen asks, ignoring Jack's comment as he edges closer to the crate. Jack pulls out a pale blue sphere the size of his palm and throws it at Owen, who catches it single-handed. "What's this then?"
"Medical diagnostic tool. You and Tosh should work on it. Used to be able to tell you, from ten paces away, what species of cold you'd caught. More a party trick than anything else, but you might find it interesting."
Holding it in front of him, Owen stares at the smooth curves. Tosh leans over his shoulder -- no personal space barriers whatsoever -- already running a finger along it. "If this thing goes off and I lose an appendage because you're feeling it up, Tosh, I won't be happy."
"It's a diagnostic tool, Owen, not a weapon," Tosh said, but she pulls her hand back anyway.
"Not unless you count giving somebody an alien flu." At Tosh's confused stare, Jack adds, "For vaccination purposes. But even when it's only for 24 hours, coming down with indigo blisters isn't my idea of a good time."
Packed in the bottom corner of the crate, away from prying eyes... Ianto holds his breath waiting for Jack to notice it.
He wasn't sure if he'd overstepped the line; he'd debated packing it. There were records in the Torchwood databases, requests from Captain Harkness for this item, requests that had been refused on the basis that London had the better science staff, the more developed research lab. It had been taking a chance to pack.
He'd seen it sitting there, unattended. It was something that UNIT hadn't understood. The files had been somewhat coded. (He'd had to use Lisa's passwords to get access to it. Even then, her access only dealt with the container and the appropriated technology used.) So he'd taken it and listed it obscurely as 'Unclassified Alien Artifact #1542'.
On his knees before the crate, Jack searches through the white foam with both hands, fishing out small items and talking to himself. "I haven't seen one of these..." he says, followed by, "And how did this get in here?"
Then Jack goes quiet. Ianto can't tell if the others notice, but the others aren't waiting to judge Jack's reaction to a specific item. Ianto looks around: Suzie has already left with the gun; Tosh and Owen are arguing in a corner if the sphere should go to the autopsy room (Owen's domain) or examined by the trio of computers on Tosh's workstation. Ianto is the only one watching, so he's the only one who sees Jack's face fall.
Jack reaches out a hand reverently as if reaching out to stroke Aphrodite's hair, and runs a finger over the glass casing of the canister. "How did you get this?" he asks, voice slightly rough, not looking away from the jar and the severed hand inside, the fingers that still twitch as the water bubbles.
Ianto can't decide if it's fascinating or simply morbid. A hand in a jar. Like Torchwood is the institutional version of a creepy serial killer. "It was one of the items listed as restricted and not to leave Torchwood," Ianto supplies.
"It could have gone to Torchwood Two." Jack looks up then. Ianto has to focus to keep his face calm, keep a slight smile -- nothing more, nothing less, nothing devious, nothing worried -- because Jack's eyes narrow and his jaw sets. For a moment, Ianto remembers official records and what people said about Captain Harkness: gregarious, fun-loving to an extent that would leave a wake of chaos in a city any busier than Cardiff; want him watching your back, a bullets-first-questions-later bloke; a real hero. It's the 'shoot first and ask questions later' comment that most worries Ianto.
"It could have," Ianto says, "but Torchwood Two is being refurbished and--" He pauses for effect and glances down, twisting his head slightly towards Owen and Toshiko, who are still discussing the new toy. The gesture is artful and calculated, but it has the desired result.
"You two," Jack says, raising his voice to be heard over their dispute. His voice is casual again, friendly and unconcerned. "You want to go test that somewhere else? I don't want you setting off the bubonic plague because there wasn't enough light to read the instructions."
Tosh's brows jump up. "There are instructions?"
"Green button, front and centre."
They walk off with Owen muttering something about know-it-all smug bastards as Tosh tries to grab the device and press the button. From Owen's squawks, he's refusing to let go. Ianto waits until he can't hear them anymore. "There's a rumour, sir, regarding Torchwood Two and Torchwood Four."
"Torchwood Four can't be located," Jack says and Ianto nods. "So all the employees are going to Torchwood Two."
"All but me."
Jack stares at him long and hard. Ianto notices the way his palm keeps hovering against the glass, as if needing reassurance that the thing existed, as if it might disappear without touch grounding it to reality. "What's happening at Torchwood Two?"
"Clearing house for employees," Ianto says, shrugging a little. He really hopes Jack doesn't ask how he found this out. He shouldn't have had access to the budget reports, to the cost-benefit analyses that compared the costs of counselling and hospital care to creating backgrounds for three dozen people. "There were only twenty-seven survivors from Canary Wharf. According to rumour, within three months, most of them won't remember working for Torchwood."
Jack doesn't seem surprised. "They're using Torchwood Two to retcon them."
"Twenty-seven recognised survivors out of eight hundred and twenty-three staff. That's a three point two eight percent survival rate. In an agency like this, a hundred percent failure is easier to justify than ninety-seven."
"We just don't change, do we?" Jack asks wryly, something hard in his tone. "Centuries don't change the human race. We still prefer to destroy lives than let our secrets be known."
"Covert government agencies don't like witnesses." Ianto looks down at the crate, at Jack's tanned fingers caressing the sleek canister. Has a flash of his own fingers on Lisa's body, curves of cold, unforgiving steel. "I thought it best that anything unknown come here, where someone might remember what it was."
Jack nods, and for a moment, Ianto sympathises. He knows that expression of loss, of desperate hope. He's seen it in the mirror. "Now, if you'll excuse me, sir, there's another seven crates to move."
"Are the others as interesting as this?" Jack asks, still kneeling over the crate, arm stretched out.
"I doubt it. The rest were partially investigated and left unclassified due to lack of military application." Ianto offers a bland smile. "They're most likely hairdryers and microwaves."
***
Ianto's planned and he's studied, brought in items to distract the others, carefully insinuated himself -- straddled that line of interesting enough to be accepted and boring enough to be dismissed and ignored -- but the whole plan comes down to one thing: being able to get one box away from the others. Being able to get that one box into a separate room, out of CCTV coverage and connected to a power source.
He only needs a small length of time. At a push, he could do it in thirty-five minutes. Get it moved, get the equipment set up, get everything connected and plugged in, get Lisa stabilised, but it requires thirty-five solid minutes of not getting called to somewhere else (even if it is just to make coffee).
Ianto's counting it down inside his head. Forty-two minutes until the second delivery truck is expected, until Lisa arrives here. And she's going to arrive here alive, she's going to arrive here still breathing, he has to believe that. It has to happen. Just like those two thousand and one hundred undisturbed seconds have to happen, but he doesn't know how to guarantee it.
He's planned around Jack. There's a conference call with the head of UNIT scheduled to take place ten minutes before the truck should arrive. It will be just the right time for Ianto to pop upstairs, tell Jack, "The truck's here, I'll take care of it if you'll sign here for the delivery."
Owen's distracted at the moment, working on the gadgets. He's so self-centred -- only concerned with what he deems important -- that he wouldn't be a problem anyway. Toshiko's more of a concern but the police department upgraded their computer system and she's familiarising herself with it, making sure their access won't be noticed. Once she's on a computer, a nuclear attack could happen and she'd barely notice.
Suzie… Ianto's not sure about Suzie. She could be looking at that weapon still, but when he walks past, Suzie watches with a sharp gaze, and Ianto knows she sees more than she's letting on. How much more, he doesn't know. It couldn't be everything, couldn't be anywhere near it, or she would have already told Jack.
He needs this to go as planned. He needs it. He can't afford for it not to work.
In the end, it's blind, dumb luck that works in his favour. As he's standing in the conference room, clearing dishes and mentally reviewing the order of connections -- respirator first, has to be turned off to switch power supplies, can't be off for more than ninety seconds; heart monitor next, need to check the blood pressure and heart rate, need to check the medication levels -- Jack comes in.
"Someone spotted a weevil," Jack says.
Ianto blinks, buying time. He's sure that an insect sighting wouldn't be causing this reaction. "Excuse me, sir?"
"Weevils. They're aliens that come through the Rift." As Jack says it, Ianto remembers reports, logged sightings, mauled animal carcasses and occasional human victims. He's done his research, he knows this; he's just too distracted at the moment to remember it. "We're not sure why or how, but one's been spotted. They're dangerous. We're going to collect it. Hopefully, alive this time."
Jack's grin is adventurous and charming. Ianto wishes it wasn't. He wishes that most of Jack wasn't charming, wasn't affable, wasn't friendly, then he wouldn't have to keep reminding himself that Captain Harkness was deadly, that Captain Harkness would shoot first and ask questions later. That Captain Harkness is a danger, is an enemy that he needs to keep at a certain distance.
"My job description doesn't cover fieldwork, sir."
"You're pretty good with a gun," Jack says, and for an instant, Ianto regrets letting Jack know that. Not that he'd had much choice. Jack had all but commanded him down to the gun-range to test Ianto's self-assessed 'fair shot' and threatened to teach Ianto himself. Ianto needed to avoid personal attention of any kind, to find a way to side-step Harkness's flirting innuendos and spend more time alone than with any of the team. One-on-one gun range practice was the opposite of that so his only option had been to prove that he was more than capable.
(It would have been too hard not to remember Lisa teaching him, Lisa's hands against his. Lisa's voice through his earphones saying, "If you kill the next one with less than two bullets, I'm going to put on that suspender belt and stockings to go out tonight." Her smile when he improved.)
"If it's all the same, sir, I'd rather not. There's also a delivery scheduled for tonight and someone will need to be here for it."
"Oh, I'd forgotten that," Jack says. Ianto doesn't believe that for a moment. Jack looks a little too pleased about getting out of it. "But you can sign for it, right? Shouldn't be a problem?"
"I'll take care of it, sir."
There's movement in the hub below them and it catches Ianto's eye. Tosh is grabbing her bag and jacket while Owen gets an emergency kit of medical supplies and what looks like a tranquiliser gun. Suzie's gathering aerosol cans (Ianto will have to remember to ask about that later, find out what they are). Despite the hubbub, Jack takes a moment to tilt his head down and look up at Ianto through his lashes. "I could get used to relying on you, Ianto Jones."
Ianto doesn't quite know what to say to that. He's relieved when Suzie comes clanking up the stairs. "Come on, Jack, SUV's ready to go." She turns that sharp gaze on him. "You coming?"
"I need to stay for the delivery. We have more archives coming tonight," Ianto says pleasantly. She narrows her eyes and he hates the way she stares. It feels like she's looking right through him, reading the secrets imprinted on the back of his brain. She doesn't say anything about it.
Jack turns, coat swelling behind him magnificently and calls over his shoulder, "Be home later, honey."
Suzie shrugs and follows him.
***
During the next forty-one minutes, Ianto clears out the Tourist Office desk and finds a stopwatch.
When the delivery truck drives away, leaving crates across the floor, he presses the button.
When Lisa is stabilised, back-up generator in place, respirator wheezing, screens beeping out her heart rate, fresh medication trickling through her veins, he clicks the stopwatch again.
It took thirty-two minutes and seventeen seconds.
***
Part 2.
Fandom: Torchwood
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit.
Summary: Considering that it appeared to be run by a man with no consideration of paperwork, bureaucracy or meticulous thinking, Torchwood Three was the most logical place to hide.
Notes: Set pre-S1. The quote comes from Ani DiFranco’s song, Studying Stones, which was listened to many times while writing this and remains a perfect angsty-Ianto song. Thank you to
gothams3rdrobin for the Britpick and ekaterinn for offering to poke me with a stick to get this finished (and for having a great sense of pacing).***
Trying to keep my face blank
As a stone that just sank
Until not a ripple remains
***
Ianto's first impressions of Captain Jack Harkness -- long before he met the man and discovered his almost palpable charisma -- could be summed up in two words: rebellious and intelligent. The second was almost a given. Torchwood didn't suffer fools gladly, and anyone who couldn't keep up was quickly left behind, missing the relevant memories.
It was the first one that was important. Rebels didn't pay enough attention to the rules, to systems and order. They didn't notice minor deviations and irregularities.
Harkness's employee file -- the part that wasn't classified -- was a half-page detailing his role at Torchwood Three that told Ianto very little, but Ianto could read between the lines of the haphazard case reports. They were collaborations thrown together by different agents, pieced together like a jigsaw puzzle: too much detail here, not enough there; a certain flair when it came to describing alien technology followed by cold, martial description of physical encounters.
Torchwood Three was an indulgence. Ianto couldn't verify it but he was sure that Torchwood Three was a combination of bribe and thank-you gift to a man who was well-known and barely documented.
Harkness had personally campaigned for a division in Cardiff to watch a rift that Torchwood One deigned "negligible". He ran it with a skeleton crew, only half the staff he had funding for, and with the broadly defined purpose of averting danger and protecting civilians.
Considering that it appeared to be run by a man with no consideration of paperwork, bureaucracy or meticulous thinking, Torchwood Three was the most logical place to hide.
***
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 location 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, sketching lines and diagrams into his skin. She couldn't always explain why a gadget worked, but she could reverse engineer anything that came across her desk. If you built it precisely from her schematic, it would work.)
He'd tried to puzzle it through himself but Lisa, buzzed and drowsy from the combination of pain and painkillers, still had to correct him constantly.
(He had asked 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." So he'd 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. Correct forms, correct stamps, correct signatures. Sorted out a place in Cardiff, packed up their flat in London and sent letters to various friends and relatives, explaining that he'd been transferred 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 got in his car -- pen, phone and wallet in his pocket, small suitcase in the back seat -- and drove. He knocked on the door of Torchwood Three at precisely seven in the morning.
***
Three sharp knocks, then Ianto waits. He doesn't look above him, or over his shoulder to the CCTV cameras recording with objective, unforgiving eyes. Instead, he faces the door and lets himself be watched.
The door opens to reveal Captain Jack Harkness, flashing a smile as white as Ianto's shirt. Ianto had expected Harkness would be the one to greet him -- possibly to make him jump through hoops like a show pony, Ianto's not certain -- but he hadn't expected Harkness to do it in a thin t-shirt with suspenders hanging loose against his hips.
The files had given Ianto some warning. A few blurry ID shots, enough to have an idea of body shape, dark hair, strong jaw. Discreetly talking to other Torchwood staff -- chatting of being homesick, of moving closer to family -- had left him anticipating a larger than life American: handsome, easy to talk to, good with a gun, gregarious and outgoing.
He'd expected a lot of things, but not the slow gaze Harkness slide down Ianto's frame.
Ianto had thought he was too tired, too worried, too numb, to be surprised by anything these days. But in the back of his head, there's a small, shocked voice saying: he's checking me out. For a moment, it strikes Ianto as highly absurd.
He pushes the amusement away before it shows on his face. "I'm Ianto Jones, sir."
He offers his hand and Harkness takes it, shakes it twice and holds it an extra moment before releasing. "Captain Jack Harkness. Call me Jack. It's nice to meet you, Ianto Jones."
"I'm the new transfer."
"And where, Ianto Jones, have you transferred from?" Jack smiles smugly, like there's a joke that only he gets, or as if he's just finished undressing Ianto in his imagination.
It's not the first time someone's flirted with him, not by a wide mark, but it's so obvious that it makes Ianto pause. No, obvious isn't the right word. Brazen might be better. Jack hasn't said anything untoward but he's certainly flirting, optimistic and unashamedly trying to charm.
It's an unexpected and unwelcome complication. The last thing Ianto's looking for is personal attention. He keeps his face blank and says, "London, sir."
"And why would you transfer here?"
"Closer to home," Ianto says, well aware that he's still standing on a public street; for all of Jack's smiles and heated glances, he hasn't invited Ianto inside.
"I had noticed the accent -- rather delightful, by the way -- but unfortunately for me, I think you're in the wrong place." Jack steps back from the door, opening it fully and waving a hand towards the small counter, the stacks of tourism brochures and the rather hopeless beaded curtain. "As you can see, this isn't an operation that needs extra staff. Regardless of how good you'd look behind that counter."
Blinking, Ianto ignores the compliments and steps past Jack. Once the door closes behind them, he elaborates, "I'm the new transfer from Torchwood One."
To Ianto's relief, Jack's expression sharpens into something just shy of professionalism. "I thought all staff were being transferred to Torchwood Two."
"As I said, I wanted to be closer to home. Also, after due consideration, it was decided that Torchwood Three has become large enough to warrant administrative staff."
Jack grins. "I've been sent my very own secretary?"
"According to the job description, I'm your executive assistant," Ianto corrects mildly, wondering if he should have added 'sir' to that sentence. A man who calls himself Captain -- without ever stating how he's earned the title -- will probably appreciate a clear sign of respect.
"A secretary's job is to answer the phone, make coffee and look pretty around the office. How is your job any different?"
"I also file, sir."
Jack laughs. "Executive assistant it is."
Sauntering to the other side of the counter, Jack throws another of those too white, too toothy smiles over his shoulder but doesn't actually ask Ianto to follow, so Ianto stays where he is. With a gentle clatter of beads, Jacks disappears out the back, leaving Ianto alone.
Ianto doesn't look around, doesn't pry. He could, but he knows from the blueprints held at Torchwood Tower -- at what used to be Torchwood Tower, he mentally amends -- that the ground level of this building is pure decoy, open to the public; there's nothing of any interest kept here. He'd also lay good money on the fact that Jack is standing back there watching him on the monitors and checking Ianto's explanations. It will all ring true: everything's gone through the proper channels, after all.
Ianto sets his shoulders and waits.
In a matter of minutes, Jack returns. Now there's a long military coat, hanging open, and a dark blue shirt, completely buttoned and tucked in. The shoulder insignia aren't familiar -- three pale grey lines; American, maybe? -- and when Jack turns, the red braces can still be seen.
"Right now, scrambled eggs and a strong cup of coffee sounds heavenly to me." Jack asks, dropping something into his pocket. Ianto notices a watch on one wrist and some kind of leather band on the other. "Hungry?"
"Not particularly," Ianto replies, almost honestly. He doesn't think he could stomach food today. "I had hoped to meet the rest of the team first."
"It's ten past seven. You'll be waiting an hour before anyone else shows up. At least." Jack opens the front door and Ianto realises he won't be seeing the rest of Torchwood Three any time soon. He's sure the paperwork was immaculate, every form submitted, but he mentally reviews them, trying to anticipate what's drawn Jack's interest.
"There's a great little cafe down the road," Jack says, flourishing an arm towards the street like a girl on a game show. "My treat."
Ianto nods and follows.
***
"So," Jack says, swirling the coffee in his cup and pushing the now empty plate away, "what did you actually do in Torchwood One?"
Ianto looks around the place. It's cosy and intimate, booths tucked into corners and lighting not too bright. There are men in suits having coffee, students in faded jeans sharing a serving of chips. In short: they're surrounded by civilians.
For the entire meal -- the last twenty-three minutes to be precise -- Jack's wallowed in small talk, discussing Cardiff, the weather, the hassles of moving. Nothing precise, nothing specific, and Ianto had started to wonder if he was worrying needlessly, if Jack Harkness really had invited him out to breakfast for no other reason than to flirt with the new guy.
"Are you sure this is the best place to discuss this?" Ianto asks calmly, raising his tea cup to his lips and breathing in steam.
"Sure. Crowded cafes are the best. Nobody cares enough to eavesdrop." Jack smiles, but he sounds perfectly serious. "I always thought that World War Three must have been planned in crowded cafes, surrounded by people who didn't care but should have."
Ianto doesn't know what to say to that, so he sips his tea.
"Anyway, you didn't answer my question. What did you actually do?"
"General office work," Ianto says, and Jack circles a hand, gesturing for him to elaborate. He tells his life in partial truths. "Filing, typing, answering phones. Taking messages, answering memos. The usual stuff."
Jack's eyes are surprisingly bright in the softened light. "That's it?"
"Dictation. Taking statements. Preparing reports." Ianto shrugs. "Making coffee."
"I hate to say this so soon after we've met, Ianto," Jack says, placing both elbows on the table and leaning across, "but I don't believe you."
He's not sure how he does it, but he manages to keep his voice level even as the adrenaline spikes in his veins. "Really?"
"I'm pretty sure you're lying to me."
Ianto quickly takes stock of the situation. Eyes narrowed but still grinning, Jack looks intrigued and amused. If he knew what Ianto was lying about, if he even had suspicions, everything in Harkness's case reports suggests Ianto would be put in a cell first and asked questions later. Therefore, Ianto thinks to himself, stressing the words carefully, he doesn't know.
He doesn't know.
"I don't understand, sir."
"Want to know why?"
Ianto swallows a mouthful of tea and nods.
Leaning back, Jack stretches an arm along the chair and manages to take up far more space than necessary. "Your employee file describes you as 'admin staff'. Two words, five letters each. That's not the way Torchwood works."
"Oh," Ianto says and does not grin, does not laugh. He'd forgotten -- amidst the moving, amidst placing his girlfriend inside a packing crate marked "Delicate: do not disturb", amidst telling her family that her body had never been found -- he'd forgotten the older lies. They feel so unimportant, something that only mattered in another life.
But Captain Jack Harkness has picked up on it -- such a small thing -- and if he wants to drag the so-called truth into the light, if he thinks understanding this means he understands Ianto, can summarise and disregard Ianto as a threat, so be it.
Sacrifice a small lie to hide a big one: a bargain. But admit it too easy and more suspicions would be raised. So Ianto turns the cup in his hands and waits for Jack to spell it out.
"For all the good that Torchwood does, we're very fond of titles. The more impressive sounding the better. We don't have filing clerks, we have Document Relocation Specialists. And the longer the title, the less important the job."
"You do realise that technically you're the 'Managing Director of the Welsh Regional Branch of Her Majesty's Torchwood', right?"
Jack huffs in amusement. "That's only technically. My real title is Boss. Four letters. Lets you know how essential I really am."
"I'm sure it says that on your business cards."
"I don't have business cards. Too impersonal." Tilting his head, Jack waits for a reaction. Ianto makes sure he doesn't let anything show. "The really interesting thing, Ianto Jones, is that I have a fairly high level of clearance. And your employment history says 'admin staff'. Precisely what job is so hidden that I don't have clearance to see it?"
Ducking his head, Ianto stares into his cup. If Jack's as smart as Ianto believes -- and he must be, because Torchwood Three, for being short-staffed and barely professional, consistently manages to succeed, to puzzle out artefacts and minimise dangers -- he'll work it out without Ianto's help. That would be best.
So Ianto doesn't look up, doesn't make eye-contact, and when Jack says slowly, sounding so self-satisfied, "SPIDA," Ianto glances across the table top and asks, "What? Where?"
It's an old joke. A department-wide joke, really, but it's a useful first reaction.
It usually throws people off, but Jack just chuckles, a warm, pleased sound that uncoils something low in Ianto's spine. "Oh, that's cute. That's very cute. But I wasn't talking about arachnids, and you know it."
Ianto, despite his better judgement, looks up and meets Jack's gaze. "It always was a stupid acronym."
"The full name wasn't much better. Specific Identification Assignment? It sounds like some transgender elective surgery." Jack rolls his eyes -- exaggerating the gesture, making it a performance -- and Ianto catches himself before he smiles. This conversation isn't about relaxing, he reminds himself, it's about creating an impression.
"We're classified as admin staff. Otherwise, it makes it difficult to transfer to other areas."
"No one likes working beside the guy who might retcon you and take away the last few years of your life," Jack says lightly, but there's something sharp in the twist of his mouth as he says it. That attitude is the precise reason the department is classified.
Ianto's always been a stickler for details, for getting it right, so he corrects Jack even though it serves no purpose. "We don't actually work that way. We don't transfer staff into a department to retcon agents. Generally, they transfer to us."
"I'd heard that," Jack says slowly.
Ianto waits for him to fill the silence. If Jack has questions, Ianto will answer them, but there's no need for him to volunteer information.
Jack, however, is surprisingly patient. He drinks his coffee and watches Ianto with a thoughtful expression.
Ianto lifts his teacup, takes a mouthful, swallows and then places it back on the saucer. As he does so, he splits his concentration between keeping each movement smooth and steady, and keeping his face blankly composed. He interlocks his hands and rests his wrists on the table and, with the thumb that's hidden inside the huddle of fingers, digs the nail into the flesh of his palm. The pain gives him something to focus on, something other than the way Jack is unashamedly studying him.
Ianto lets his gaze drop to Jack's shoulder, to the unfamiliar insignia, lines of pale grey against the charcoal wool. He tries not to think about Lisa -- doesn't let himself imagine where she is right now, if she's awake, if she knows what will happen to both of them if this deception is discovered -- and instead focuses on what those three silver stripes could mean.
"Call it a character flaw," Jack says, interrupting Ianto's thoughts, "but I'm still curious."
"About what, sir?"
"About what you used to do. How long were you there?"
"Three years, eight months."
Jack raises an eyebrow. "I thought SPIDA had a faster turn-over than that."
"As a general rule," Ianto agrees with a nod.
"But you liked it enough to stay?" Again, there's a sharpness to his smile, a dangerous edge to the charm. "I'm wondering what type of person enjoys a job like that."
"Someone detail-oriented," Ianto says quickly and swiftly regrets it when Jack's expression tightens further. He knows the opinion most Torchwood staff have of SPIDA. It was considered akin to the Gestapo, a cause of paranoia that only answered to the highest internal authorities. Given that all Torchwood departments were beyond the reach of external authorities, it seemed a ridiculous reason to fear an entire department, but he knows he shouldn't joke about it. People tend to find it... disquieting. "I like knowing that everything is in its proper place. That things are settled and cases are closed. That every t is crossed and every i dotted."
"Go on," Jack says and there's no mistaking that it's an order.
"I wasn't a field agent. The most I knew of the retconned agents was through employee files and CCTV surveillance. My job was administration: preparing documents and files." Jack seems to be waiting for something more, so Ianto obliges him with the truth. "People don't remember every minute of every day, they remember broad ideas and occasional moments. It was my responsibility to provide the cover story and the evidence to prove it."
"Give me an example."
"You can't take away years of someone's life without replacing it. You can't leave someone without memories, so you tell them a story. You can tell them that they spent the last two years as a dentist in Wrexham and moved to Cardiff to set up a new practice and under the right conditions, they'll accept it. But after a while, they'll start to wonder and doubt it, and look for proof. So you make sure there's a cardboard box of old appointment diaries, occasional letters from patients, old invoices lost amongst books and mementos. We live our lives in clutter, surrounded by bits and pieces of everything we've known. My job was to create that clutter, make it random and unorganised, make it believable."
Taking a breath, Ianto looked away from Jack's too-handsome features and too-interested expression, and wondered if he'd said too much, exposed himself too easily. If it would have been better to lie and create a less heartfelt excuse. But he knows that the art to a good story, to a convincing lie, is to offer the truth as well.
"You took it quite seriously, didn't you?"
"It was a serious job, sir."
***
It was a serious job that entailed performing important tasks. They'd been the ones to keep an eye on ex-agents, to ensure that no matter how they'd left -- terminated for inappropriate use of technology; resigning over the inability to perform necessary tasks; walking out after seeing too many hidden threats, too much blood, too much knowledge of what was really waiting out there -- they were protected. That as much as any other British citizen, they slept safe and their worries were "Will she call me back?" not "Will I die today?"
But that didn't mean they'd been funereal. They'd had Monday mornings where nothing went right and Wednesday afternoons with almost empty inboxes. There had been Thursdays spent in the meeting room with Dave and Nick, all three of them clicking on laptops, competing for the most realistic photos and wagering rounds of drinks.
The current agent -- his case file was numbered AR924K-1, so Dave had christened him Archibald because you couldn't yell encouragements across a table using an agent's actual name -- had been given an achingly normal back-story of middle-management at a stationery firm and all the essential work was done. But Charmaine in HR was looking for performance reviews, so the three of them had barricaded themselves within the meeting room until they could safely depart for the pub.
"You're never going to make that shot usable," Dave was saying, peering over Nick's shoulder. "It's a bad angle, and it's grainy."
"But look at the expression on his face." Nick pulled the picture up on the shared projector, painting the white wall with CCTV footage of a man -- tall, thin, blonde hair parted to the side, lean face of a racehorse -- looking over his shoulder to snarl something behind him. "It's priceless."
Nick and his enthusiasm for badly taken, clearly amateur photos was well known. Sometimes, it was even helpful.
"Why would anyone keep a photo like that?"
Ianto looked up from his game of Solitaire. Nick and Dave were far better at manipulating graphics, so he already knew that he'd be paying for the first round. "Maybe he didn't mean to keep it. It happened to fall in the back of a book somewhere. The type of thing he'll throw out after he finds it."
Nick raised both brows and the white of his eyes stood out against the burnt-caramel of his skin. "The type of thing taken by a bitchy ex, maybe?"
"Oh," Dave said, settling behind his computer again and flashing fingers across the keyboard, "there was a mention in the history. An ex-wife. Left the country. Vicious divorce but no children."
"So give it the personal touch," Ianto said, staring at his black nine and willing it to become red. This was Torchwood: sometimes, if you wished hard enough, things changed because you wanted it so badly; sometimes, like on Level 17, entire teams changed into lizards. They still weren't sure what had caused that. "We must have a record of the handwriting they're using for her. Like..."
"Proof that you're precisely as photogenic as you've always claimed?"
"I was thinking of something simpler," Ianto said, looking over to the projection where Nick was replacing the background with a hotel balcony showing an overcast sky mixed with the concrete grey of other hotels. "'Truly your best side.' Sharp, simple."
"Nasty," Nick added. "How the boss thinks you're the nice one, Ianto, I'll never understand."
Ianto smiled as sweetly as he could.
Dave rolled his eyes. "It's only because he fixed the coffee machine. And the photocopier. And lied to Hubble's wife about where he was."
"I thought he was at a meeting," Ianto objected, not at all proud of his part in it. "That's what his diary said."
"He was in a meeting," Nick said, leering. "He was meeting Cheryl from the mail room in a hotel for the afternoon."
"It's still the reason he likes you," Dave said. Then he let the subject matter drop as Nick brought up the final proofs on the wall. There was a moment of quiet appreciation. By the background, it must have been a holiday; judging by the suit the guy was wearing they'd been about to head off, maybe out to dinner, and by the annoyed expression, he wasn't happy about it. "Nick, my man, you have done it again."
Nick saved it and emailed it to the servers. "And you are both buying me drinks."
"Yeah, yeah," Dave said, looking at the time and closing his laptop. "But you know what I don't get? Why's it always holidays with you?"
"A certain proportion of photos are bad. People take lots of photos on holidays. Therefore, there's a higher chance of bad photos being developed from those taken away from home. And more encouragement to keep them, due to remembering trips even if the photos aren't flattering." Nick recited it calmly while packing up; all three of them knew he'd had to justify his love of bad holiday snaps before. "Besides, look at Ianto's holiday pictures. There's proof that terrible photography skills run wild away from home."
Ianto felt obliged to defend his honour, even if it was partially true. "My holiday photos aren't that bad. Some of them come out perfectly presentable," he said, as they left the meeting room and walked past the empty cubicles and occupied offices. Clearly, he wasn't including the over-exposed, the under-exposed, the badly framed or the blurred shots (that made up 90% of the developed films).
"No, the photos that Lisa sets up come out perfectly presentable. The photos that you take are..." Nick paused, but Dave was happy to fill the gap.
"Horrendous. Shocking. Completely without artistic merit and struggling to reach mediocrity."
"If I'm paying for the first round, I don't think I deserve this criticism." Ianto complained, pitching his tone quiet enough that they wouldn't draw attention from the rest of the office.
"Today, you do."
Dave grinned sharply. "We've decided to rename Thursdays. It's now Pick On Ianto Day."
"Every Thursday?" Ianto asked, and they nodded in unison. Ianto knew he'd dropped the last case on the pair of them -- so he could keep his anniversary plans with Lisa -- but he'd filed away the notes later, and brought in coffee, and thought he'd been forgiven. "Do I get to know why?"
"For telling Charmaine we hadn't completed this year's performance management plans yet."
"Oh," Ianto said, thinking of the seventeen pages of positively phrased sections. ("How I'm going to improve my work standard at Torchwood!" and "Things I can do to be a positive asset to my department!" were two that sprung to mind. He'd never understood why they all needed exclamation points.) "Then I'll try my best to bear it."
Nick laughed. "That's the spirit."
"As long as you don't start referring to it as POID, I think I'll manage."
***
In all the important ways, Jack was precisely the type of boss Ianto thought he would be. He was more flirtatious than expected (that first day, at the cafe, he'd stared until Ianto had had to clench his hands to stop fidgeting, stared until Ianto had asked, "Is there anything else, sir?" and Jack shook his head, saying, "I'm just taking a moment to enjoy the view.") but not quite as arrogant. He was impetuous in matters of action but lackadaisical when it came to mundane organisation. He liked leaving the small details in other people's hands.
Take, for instance, Ianto's introduction to the rest of Torchwood Three. He'd already known the names, ID photos, employee histories of each of them because he'd wanted to be as prepared as possible. It was just as well.
After announcing that everyone should get a chance to admire the new scenery, Jack gave the following introductions:
"Ianto Jones, this is Suzie Costello. She enjoys driving the SUV and likes alien weapons. Really likes them. Girl after my own heart.
"This is Toshiko Sato, resident IT genius. Never met a computer she couldn't have her wicked way with.
"This is Owen Harper--"
"Dr Owen Harper, thank you."
"-- who does the autopsies, medical reports and staff vaccinations."
No details of where they'd worked previously. No clear chain of command or separation of duties. Jack was the antipathy of systematic and methodical; in all the important ways, he was the perfect boss.
***
By lunchtime, Ianto realises an important thing: nobody cares about the filing but everybody cares about the coffee.
"It's an ongoing dispute," Toshiko says, pausing at the tiny, serviceable kitchen. After the introduction, Jack had had to take a call, Suzie Costello and Owen Harper had gone back to doing whatever they'd had planned for the morning, and Toshiko had shot a longing gaze towards a workstation crowded with computer monitors and then offered to show him around the hub.
It's a pity. Under different circumstances, Ianto would really like Toshiko with her detailed descriptions and sweet sense of humour.
But he can't change circumstances. He can't think of these people as possible friends. At best, he can consider them indifferent co-workers; at worst, he needs to be able to think of them as obstacles to be overcome.
He can, and does, smile when Toshiko tells an exhaustive tale of the coffee machine spraying coffee all over Jack after Suzie's attempt to install a timed shut-off switch (caused in part, Toshiko admits, by her own habit of turning the machine on and getting so absorbed in her work that she completely forgets to turn it off).
"Owen refuses to make coffee, since it's not directly stated in his job description," she says, "and Jack's banned Suzie from the machine. But if Jack ever offers you a cup of coffee, don't take it. He likes it strong enough to eat through concrete."
Toshiko turns to the machine, pouring a cup for each of them. Then Ianto hears it. Behind them, there's a clunk-clunk-clunk of metallic, thumping footsteps. Frozen still and terrified, it takes him a moment to separate facts from memories, to focus on the present instead of screams and fire and lumbering metal men. To hear the inconsistencies in the tread, the tapping of fingernails against a railing, the very human sound of humming.
When he turns to look behind him -- turns slowly, smile firmly in place -- Owen Harper is climbing the last few steel steps and walking into the room. "There'd better be enough there for another cup, Tosh."
Toshiko turns around, brows high in a look of almost comical distress as she looks at the empty jug in her hands. "You wanted a cup?"
"No," Owen replies sarcastically. From what Ianto's overheard so far, sarcastic is Harper's default tone. "I was asking for my own amusement."
"Oh," Toshiko says, looking from Owen to the two poured cups and back again.
"You're welcome to have mine," Ianto offers. "I can make another pot."
Owen doesn't thank anyone, but he reaches for the cup.
Ianto takes a moment to study the machine and then opens the cupboard below. It's a chaotic mess with plastic plates stacked on top of bags of sugar, tea-towels, kitchen cloths and a stack of printed emails dated last month. But eventually Ianto finds the coffee beans and filters.
He starts by emptying out the old grinds and cleaning the machine thoroughly.
"The secretary makes coffee," Owen says, default tone mixed with smug superiority. "Why am I not surprised?"
Toshiko's question is far more friendly. "You've done this before?"
"In university, I had a part-time job as a barista. It's a little like riding a bike."
"What? You fall off and scrape your knees?" Owen asks.
Ianto blinks. He doesn't say something sarcastic, he doesn't bite back. He needs these people to take him for granted, to accept and dismiss him. He needs them to ignore him. He can't afford to be rude or get anyone off-side.
Calmly he says, "I meant that it's hard to forget," and Owen rolls his eyes.
***
Lisa loved his coffee. After bleary, too-late nights at loud discos (her choice) or quieter, but no less alcoholic, nights at the pub (his choice), he'd wake up first and make her coffee.
"You're an angel," she'd say, eyes closed in caffeine-laden bliss and her full, sensuous lips lightly pursed. That expression -- that expression on his Lisa, still warm and relaxed from sleep, still naked under the rumpled covers -- inspired thoughts that were far from angelic.
***
Given Jack's supposed preference for strong coffee and the old tea set found in the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet, Ianto prepares the next pot with Jack in mind.
He finds an old metal tray in the back of the kitchen, the blue enamel chipped and a little dented. The tea set is off-white and old, with little blue Forget-Me-Nots painted in painstaking detail over the finely cracked china. He fills the sugar bowl and milk jug, places them on the tray -- blue and old, chipped and cracking, mismatched in a way that suits Torchwood Three. The whole hub seems cobbled together: old office furniture supporting brand-new technology; sleek metal doors and old moss-covered stones; the hum of computers and the slow drip-drip-drip of leaking pipes.
Ianto doesn't really fit here, but nothing really fits here. It's only here because it's useful and there's nowhere better for it to be. But it's convenient, he reminds himself, and it's the safest place for Lisa. Safe, of course, being a relative term at this point.
Even Ianto can hear the tinge of hysterical amusement to his thoughts. He clamps down hard on it.
Keeping his shoulders straight, his hands level, his expression friendly with just a hint of a smile, Ianto carries the tray to Jack's office.
Jack smiles when he sees it. For the first time, Ianto notices that Jack doesn't clench his jaw when he smiles. In fact, there's a slight gap between the two rows of teeth as if he's trying to make sure he shows the greatest surface area possible. It's the perfect smile of even, straight, white teeth. Ianto wonders if they've been capped.
Not that it makes any difference.
"You know," Jack says, grin widening impossibly further as Ianto places the tray down and Jack spots the sugar bowl and milk, "it's not really your job to make the coffee."
"I had the most relevant experience, sir."
"So you're more than just a pretty face," Jack says, helping himself to four --no, five -- spoonfuls of sugar. He splashes the milk in carelessly. "Well, a lot more."
There's a long, slow glance that accompanies that last remark, but Ianto ignores it. "I wanted to discuss filing, sir."
From the spark of interest in Jack's eye, from the raised eyebrow, in Jack's mind 'filing' is a codeword for something illicit and very fun. "Really?"
"The first of the deliveries from London should be coming tonight. They may need a designated archive area. Two or three rooms, I'd think."
"Isn't there a box of artefacts coming, things Torchwood Two didn't want?" Jack distractedly asks, raising the cup to his red lips.
The items aren't, strictly speaking, things Torchwood Two didn't want. After the chaos of battle, every able-bodied employee had been drafted to help clear the mess and pack away all extra-terrestrial evidence. Most had been in too much shock to be of much use, everyone partially frozen in their personal nightmares; it had been easy for Ianto to squirrel away particular items and produce separate inventory lists for the Welsh and Scottish contingents.
He'd tried to take items most likely to distract Suzie with her sharp eyes and Jack with his knowing grin. He needs the distraction.
"There are three deliveries in total, sir."
"Three boxes?"
"Three trucks," Ianto corrects.
"Trucks?" Jack's surprise seems genuine. Ianto's not sure if that means anything. "How much junk has Torchwood Two dumped on us?"
"The first one should be assorted alien artefacts. The second two should be filing cabinets and the archived files of Torchwood One."
"Is there a reason the files couldn't go to Torchwood Two?" Jack opens up his computer, flicking through something. Judging by the reflection in the glass beside him, Jack's looking through his emails, possibly trying to find when he agreed to this.
"It was thought best if the archives were split between two locations, sir. Less chance of losing everything," Ianto offers patiently.
"Sign up, protect the world against alien threats," Jack mutters, standing up and flicking the screen of his laptop closed. "They never said anything about filing."
***
It takes them an hour of trudging through the sub-basements to mark out rooms for the archives. The entire place is dark, half-lit, dusty -- makes Ianto think of second-hand bookstores and his grandpa's flat, hallways lined with bookcases, shelves full of knick-knacks, old half-broken and utterly worthless.
Ianto's fingers itch to clean it. Especially when he thinks of Torchwood One and their meticulous, spotless file rooms. Clean and well-lit, all sharp minimalist lines, filing cabinets built into the walls. It looked sterile and secure, and now it's a half-burned room full of debris.
***
The delivery truck pulled into what was, oddly enough, labelled the delivery dock. It's actually a small roller-door on the other side of the building, street-level, marked 'Deliveries Only'. It serves as the entrance to the SUV's underground parking.
("Kind of conspicuous to park it on the street," Jack had said. Ianto didn't point out that merely driving the clearly-labelled SUV was conspicuous.)
The first box Ianto unpacks is carefully labelled 'Unpack First'. It contains a small tractor beam, portable and easy to use, but unable to lift more than 40kg of weight -- 60kg if packed in a box of just the right size, maybe -- so generally useless for military purposes but very useful for moving filing cabinets.
Beneath that is what Ianto calls 'The Hovering Trolley'. It looks like a small boxing ring, roughly one metre square, a flat red base and four blue posts standing up from the corners. With its bright colours and moulded plastic appearance, it looks a like an upside-down children's table. Except one of the columns is pressed a certain way, a shimmering purple mesh appears between the four posts, like the ropes on a boxing ring. It's a low-level force field, for all that Torchwood refused to officially call it that.
(If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, Ianto's inclined to call it a damn force field.)
A certain twist on another column and it hovers, weightless in the air and easy to push. Again, perfect for unpacking.
Jack gives him a look as he pulls the items out and quickly assembles them. "That was very convenient."
"Best to be prepared, sir," Ianto says amenably.
Reaching into the Styrofoam packing (alien technology, advanced computer systems and dazzling weaponry have all been mastered by Torchwood but the idea of environmentally friendly packing bamboozles them), Ianto pulls out a pair of gravity gloves. They look like they were made of black leather but feel cold to the touch; they seem to use the same technology as the gravity clasps, which were purloined by UNIT after the battle.
He pulls them on one at a time, flicking them on at the wrist and picking up a crate as if it was an oversized tissue-box. It's bulky but not heavy as he places it on the hovering trolley. Then he powers the trolley and starts pushing it.
Jack stands back. When Ianto pulled out the gravity gloves he'd taken a half-step forward, looked interested, then leaned back when it was clear Ianto had this under control. Shrugging, Jack pushes himself from the wall and starts following Ianto into the hub. "I'm feeling very unnecessary here."
"You could help me unpack, sir."
As they go, Jack calls out to the others, "Suzie, Owen, Tosh! Sub-basement, now."
Ianto fights the urge to roll his eyes. He didn't want an audience. He'd have preferred to only unpack with Jack; it's easier to gauge the man's reactions when he isn't playing to a crowd.
They get it down, open it up, and Ianto congratulates himself on labelling the crates. The most interesting things -- the things he'd hoped would grab their attention -- had been placed in the first one.
"What is this stuff?" Owen asks as Jack pries off the lid. Where he got the crowbar from, Ianto has no idea.
"Stuff UNIT shouldn't get their hands on," Suzie offers.
"Technically," Ianto says, "they're items that were considered still under current investigation by Torchwood offices and therefore not yet allowed to be released to UNIT's authority."
Owen snorts. "Yeah, whatever. Is there anything interesting?"
Jack rummages through the foam, spilling it over onto the dirty stone floor. Then he lets out a low wolf-whistle. "Oh, Ianto, and it's not even my birthday."
"What is it?" Tosh asks, intrigued.
"This," Jack says, pulling out a gun roughly the size of his forearm, a cross between Dirty Harry's magnum and Han Solo's blaster, "is a Villengard Destabilizer."
"In other words, it's a gun," Owen adds dryly.
"It's a gun. It's a really, really nice gun." Jack turns it over, angling it this way and that, looking at the sheen on the dark grey metal. He flicks three buttons in quick succession. "It would be so reassuring if people would store these things with the safety catch on. Who wants to reach for a weapon and have your arm dematerialised? Once it's gone, it's gone. You're not getting that limb back."
Ianto clamps down on his amusement, stopping his smile.
"Can I?" Suzie asks, grabby hands already reaching for it.
Jack passes it over. "Check out the casing. If we get a chance, have a look at the energy signatures, too. It's a classic. They don't make them like that anymore. I should know. These days they grow bananas."
"Anything else amongst all that eco-responsible packing?" Owen asks, ignoring Jack's comment as he edges closer to the crate. Jack pulls out a pale blue sphere the size of his palm and throws it at Owen, who catches it single-handed. "What's this then?"
"Medical diagnostic tool. You and Tosh should work on it. Used to be able to tell you, from ten paces away, what species of cold you'd caught. More a party trick than anything else, but you might find it interesting."
Holding it in front of him, Owen stares at the smooth curves. Tosh leans over his shoulder -- no personal space barriers whatsoever -- already running a finger along it. "If this thing goes off and I lose an appendage because you're feeling it up, Tosh, I won't be happy."
"It's a diagnostic tool, Owen, not a weapon," Tosh said, but she pulls her hand back anyway.
"Not unless you count giving somebody an alien flu." At Tosh's confused stare, Jack adds, "For vaccination purposes. But even when it's only for 24 hours, coming down with indigo blisters isn't my idea of a good time."
Packed in the bottom corner of the crate, away from prying eyes... Ianto holds his breath waiting for Jack to notice it.
He wasn't sure if he'd overstepped the line; he'd debated packing it. There were records in the Torchwood databases, requests from Captain Harkness for this item, requests that had been refused on the basis that London had the better science staff, the more developed research lab. It had been taking a chance to pack.
He'd seen it sitting there, unattended. It was something that UNIT hadn't understood. The files had been somewhat coded. (He'd had to use Lisa's passwords to get access to it. Even then, her access only dealt with the container and the appropriated technology used.) So he'd taken it and listed it obscurely as 'Unclassified Alien Artifact #1542'.
On his knees before the crate, Jack searches through the white foam with both hands, fishing out small items and talking to himself. "I haven't seen one of these..." he says, followed by, "And how did this get in here?"
Then Jack goes quiet. Ianto can't tell if the others notice, but the others aren't waiting to judge Jack's reaction to a specific item. Ianto looks around: Suzie has already left with the gun; Tosh and Owen are arguing in a corner if the sphere should go to the autopsy room (Owen's domain) or examined by the trio of computers on Tosh's workstation. Ianto is the only one watching, so he's the only one who sees Jack's face fall.
Jack reaches out a hand reverently as if reaching out to stroke Aphrodite's hair, and runs a finger over the glass casing of the canister. "How did you get this?" he asks, voice slightly rough, not looking away from the jar and the severed hand inside, the fingers that still twitch as the water bubbles.
Ianto can't decide if it's fascinating or simply morbid. A hand in a jar. Like Torchwood is the institutional version of a creepy serial killer. "It was one of the items listed as restricted and not to leave Torchwood," Ianto supplies.
"It could have gone to Torchwood Two." Jack looks up then. Ianto has to focus to keep his face calm, keep a slight smile -- nothing more, nothing less, nothing devious, nothing worried -- because Jack's eyes narrow and his jaw sets. For a moment, Ianto remembers official records and what people said about Captain Harkness: gregarious, fun-loving to an extent that would leave a wake of chaos in a city any busier than Cardiff; want him watching your back, a bullets-first-questions-later bloke; a real hero. It's the 'shoot first and ask questions later' comment that most worries Ianto.
"It could have," Ianto says, "but Torchwood Two is being refurbished and--" He pauses for effect and glances down, twisting his head slightly towards Owen and Toshiko, who are still discussing the new toy. The gesture is artful and calculated, but it has the desired result.
"You two," Jack says, raising his voice to be heard over their dispute. His voice is casual again, friendly and unconcerned. "You want to go test that somewhere else? I don't want you setting off the bubonic plague because there wasn't enough light to read the instructions."
Tosh's brows jump up. "There are instructions?"
"Green button, front and centre."
They walk off with Owen muttering something about know-it-all smug bastards as Tosh tries to grab the device and press the button. From Owen's squawks, he's refusing to let go. Ianto waits until he can't hear them anymore. "There's a rumour, sir, regarding Torchwood Two and Torchwood Four."
"Torchwood Four can't be located," Jack says and Ianto nods. "So all the employees are going to Torchwood Two."
"All but me."
Jack stares at him long and hard. Ianto notices the way his palm keeps hovering against the glass, as if needing reassurance that the thing existed, as if it might disappear without touch grounding it to reality. "What's happening at Torchwood Two?"
"Clearing house for employees," Ianto says, shrugging a little. He really hopes Jack doesn't ask how he found this out. He shouldn't have had access to the budget reports, to the cost-benefit analyses that compared the costs of counselling and hospital care to creating backgrounds for three dozen people. "There were only twenty-seven survivors from Canary Wharf. According to rumour, within three months, most of them won't remember working for Torchwood."
Jack doesn't seem surprised. "They're using Torchwood Two to retcon them."
"Twenty-seven recognised survivors out of eight hundred and twenty-three staff. That's a three point two eight percent survival rate. In an agency like this, a hundred percent failure is easier to justify than ninety-seven."
"We just don't change, do we?" Jack asks wryly, something hard in his tone. "Centuries don't change the human race. We still prefer to destroy lives than let our secrets be known."
"Covert government agencies don't like witnesses." Ianto looks down at the crate, at Jack's tanned fingers caressing the sleek canister. Has a flash of his own fingers on Lisa's body, curves of cold, unforgiving steel. "I thought it best that anything unknown come here, where someone might remember what it was."
Jack nods, and for a moment, Ianto sympathises. He knows that expression of loss, of desperate hope. He's seen it in the mirror. "Now, if you'll excuse me, sir, there's another seven crates to move."
"Are the others as interesting as this?" Jack asks, still kneeling over the crate, arm stretched out.
"I doubt it. The rest were partially investigated and left unclassified due to lack of military application." Ianto offers a bland smile. "They're most likely hairdryers and microwaves."
***
Ianto's planned and he's studied, brought in items to distract the others, carefully insinuated himself -- straddled that line of interesting enough to be accepted and boring enough to be dismissed and ignored -- but the whole plan comes down to one thing: being able to get one box away from the others. Being able to get that one box into a separate room, out of CCTV coverage and connected to a power source.
He only needs a small length of time. At a push, he could do it in thirty-five minutes. Get it moved, get the equipment set up, get everything connected and plugged in, get Lisa stabilised, but it requires thirty-five solid minutes of not getting called to somewhere else (even if it is just to make coffee).
Ianto's counting it down inside his head. Forty-two minutes until the second delivery truck is expected, until Lisa arrives here. And she's going to arrive here alive, she's going to arrive here still breathing, he has to believe that. It has to happen. Just like those two thousand and one hundred undisturbed seconds have to happen, but he doesn't know how to guarantee it.
He's planned around Jack. There's a conference call with the head of UNIT scheduled to take place ten minutes before the truck should arrive. It will be just the right time for Ianto to pop upstairs, tell Jack, "The truck's here, I'll take care of it if you'll sign here for the delivery."
Owen's distracted at the moment, working on the gadgets. He's so self-centred -- only concerned with what he deems important -- that he wouldn't be a problem anyway. Toshiko's more of a concern but the police department upgraded their computer system and she's familiarising herself with it, making sure their access won't be noticed. Once she's on a computer, a nuclear attack could happen and she'd barely notice.
Suzie… Ianto's not sure about Suzie. She could be looking at that weapon still, but when he walks past, Suzie watches with a sharp gaze, and Ianto knows she sees more than she's letting on. How much more, he doesn't know. It couldn't be everything, couldn't be anywhere near it, or she would have already told Jack.
He needs this to go as planned. He needs it. He can't afford for it not to work.
In the end, it's blind, dumb luck that works in his favour. As he's standing in the conference room, clearing dishes and mentally reviewing the order of connections -- respirator first, has to be turned off to switch power supplies, can't be off for more than ninety seconds; heart monitor next, need to check the blood pressure and heart rate, need to check the medication levels -- Jack comes in.
"Someone spotted a weevil," Jack says.
Ianto blinks, buying time. He's sure that an insect sighting wouldn't be causing this reaction. "Excuse me, sir?"
"Weevils. They're aliens that come through the Rift." As Jack says it, Ianto remembers reports, logged sightings, mauled animal carcasses and occasional human victims. He's done his research, he knows this; he's just too distracted at the moment to remember it. "We're not sure why or how, but one's been spotted. They're dangerous. We're going to collect it. Hopefully, alive this time."
Jack's grin is adventurous and charming. Ianto wishes it wasn't. He wishes that most of Jack wasn't charming, wasn't affable, wasn't friendly, then he wouldn't have to keep reminding himself that Captain Harkness was deadly, that Captain Harkness would shoot first and ask questions later. That Captain Harkness is a danger, is an enemy that he needs to keep at a certain distance.
"My job description doesn't cover fieldwork, sir."
"You're pretty good with a gun," Jack says, and for an instant, Ianto regrets letting Jack know that. Not that he'd had much choice. Jack had all but commanded him down to the gun-range to test Ianto's self-assessed 'fair shot' and threatened to teach Ianto himself. Ianto needed to avoid personal attention of any kind, to find a way to side-step Harkness's flirting innuendos and spend more time alone than with any of the team. One-on-one gun range practice was the opposite of that so his only option had been to prove that he was more than capable.
(It would have been too hard not to remember Lisa teaching him, Lisa's hands against his. Lisa's voice through his earphones saying, "If you kill the next one with less than two bullets, I'm going to put on that suspender belt and stockings to go out tonight." Her smile when he improved.)
"If it's all the same, sir, I'd rather not. There's also a delivery scheduled for tonight and someone will need to be here for it."
"Oh, I'd forgotten that," Jack says. Ianto doesn't believe that for a moment. Jack looks a little too pleased about getting out of it. "But you can sign for it, right? Shouldn't be a problem?"
"I'll take care of it, sir."
There's movement in the hub below them and it catches Ianto's eye. Tosh is grabbing her bag and jacket while Owen gets an emergency kit of medical supplies and what looks like a tranquiliser gun. Suzie's gathering aerosol cans (Ianto will have to remember to ask about that later, find out what they are). Despite the hubbub, Jack takes a moment to tilt his head down and look up at Ianto through his lashes. "I could get used to relying on you, Ianto Jones."
Ianto doesn't quite know what to say to that. He's relieved when Suzie comes clanking up the stairs. "Come on, Jack, SUV's ready to go." She turns that sharp gaze on him. "You coming?"
"I need to stay for the delivery. We have more archives coming tonight," Ianto says pleasantly. She narrows her eyes and he hates the way she stares. It feels like she's looking right through him, reading the secrets imprinted on the back of his brain. She doesn't say anything about it.
Jack turns, coat swelling behind him magnificently and calls over his shoulder, "Be home later, honey."
Suzie shrugs and follows him.
***
During the next forty-one minutes, Ianto clears out the Tourist Office desk and finds a stopwatch.
When the delivery truck drives away, leaving crates across the floor, he presses the button.
When Lisa is stabilised, back-up generator in place, respirator wheezing, screens beeping out her heart rate, fresh medication trickling through her veins, he clicks the stopwatch again.
It took thirty-two minutes and seventeen seconds.
***
Part 2.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2007-10-09 02:03 am (UTC)And quick typo fix:
Torchwood didn suffer fools gladly <--- you're missing the 't there
no subject
Date: 2007-10-09 02:10 am (UTC)Just wanted to let you know that I absolutely love this fic, if there's any chance I didn't make that clear in my beta.
I did get that vague impression. *beams*
no subject
Date: 2007-10-09 03:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-10-09 03:50 am (UTC)(And, really, given the other things that happen in TW, keeping your half-mechanical girlfriend hidden in the basement isn't all that ridiculous.)
no subject
Date: 2008-03-07 11:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-03-08 12:08 am (UTC)I'm pretty sure that this si going to get jossed beyond belief this season (it's the threat of writing in a fandom with an active show), but is the TW story I'm most proud of writing.