out_there | TW/DW Fic: All the Dishes Rattle In the Cupboards When the Elephants Arrive (Part 2/2)

Title: All the Dishes Rattle In the Cupboards When the Elephants Arrive
Fandom: Torchwood/Doctor Who
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not RTD and making no profit.
Summary: Five ways Ianto Jones might meet the Doctor, in chronological order.

Notes: For

in_the_bottle who encouraged this. Without her encouragement, this would have been nothing more than a vague idea still sitting in the back of my head. Skim-betaed so all faults are mine. Title comes from Cake’s awesome song, “Love You Madly”.

Continued from Part One

Four Weddings and A...

They bury an empty casket. There isn't a body -- for obvious reasons -- but according to the emails that popped onto their screens six months after Jack disappeared, he wanted a funeral. He wanted the ceremony and he wanted the team to grieve and heal.

Ianto isn't surprised that the service is small. Everyone who came has worked with Jack (even Rhys has helped them on occasion). Everyone apart from the man in the brown striped suit standing behind Martha, resting a hand on her shoulder as she watches the casket being lowered into the ground.

Ianto recognises the man's cheekbones and jaw line, the rise of forehead and the wild brown hair being flicked by the wind. Jack had sent him photos and the resemblance -- right down to the dark-rimmed glasses and bright converse sneakers -- is uncanny. The only difference is in his eyes. They look much sadder in real life.

Ianto waits until the service is completed. There are rituals that should be observed, even if the casket is a hoax.

Then he steps back, away from the team, and goes to Martha.

She blinks at him and says, "Oh, Ianto," and he steps forward to hold her. He's never been comfortable being touched by strangers, but Martha hasn't been a stranger for years.

She squeezes him hard and presses a damp kiss to his cheek. "I know it's silly, but funerals always get to me."

"If it makes you feels better," Ianto offers, his smile feeling tight, "Jack's out there somewhere, probably flirting with a species he's never met before."

She nods and then smiles. She's a better liar than Ianto thought. "That's Jack. Conquering the universe through sex and exploration."

Reaching in his inside breast pocket, Ianto pulls out the envelopes. He's had them sitting there, against his chest, since he read Jack's email. He doesn't want to give them up, but he will. "Doctor?"

The Doctor is staring out across the bright green grass of the graveyard, looking at the horizon. Ianto clears his throat but it takes Martha's gentle, "Doctor?" to stir a reaction.

"What? Yes." He turns to Ianto. "Who are you?"

"Ianto Jones, sir. Torchwood Three."

The Doctor frowns at him. "One of Jack's team?"

"Jack's--" Martha stops, looking at Ianto.

They never had a term for what was between him and Jack, never needed to discuss it. Ianto has no wish to define it now. "Jack's successor. He asked me to give you these." Ianto holds up the four envelopes. One of them is crisp and new, still white with firm, sharp corners. The other three are in various stages of aging. The oldest is yellow and thick under Ianto's fingers.

"Very well." The Doctor takes them, although he seems reluctant. "Was there anything else?"

"He said to ask you to read them," Ianto says dutifully. His hands are suddenly empty and chilled. He turns up the collar of his coat against the wind. "If you'll excuse me."

The Doctor ignores him, and Ianto ignores the pitying look Martha gives him as he returns to stand by his team.

It was shocking, losing Jack, but it didn't tear the team apart. Torchwood Three has a high turn-over (thankfully, not always due to dying young) and the most senior of them's only been here six years. For as long as they've known the Hub, Ianto's been the organiser. The one who takes calls from the Prime Minister and negotiates with UNIT, who lays down ground rules for using alien technology and signs off on their reports.

Jack led them in the field. Taught them how to shoot a gun, told them where to stand, and rescued them like an action movie hero. He was their leader, known and loved by everyone, but Ianto was their boss. Ianto was the one who reprimanded and offered ultimatums, the one who stopped arguments and forced them to act like a team.

Ianto is the one who takes them out for drinks after the wake (like Jack would take them out after a Weevil hunt) and gets everyone telling stories about the legendary and often ridiculous Captain Jack Harkness. He was the one who'd watched over them for the last six months, and made sure they didn't lose anyone else.

After they go home each night, Ianto is the one who sits in his office -- the office that used to be Jack's, before it got rearranged and subdivided into two rooms -- and completes budgeting figures, and looks over the Rift activity reports for the day Jack went missing. He knows how the Rift works, how it can drop someone any place and any time. He knows they have no chance of getting Jack back. (He refuses to think of the people the Rift spits back out, the damaged souls exiled for everyone's good. Something like that would never happen to Jack.)

He reminds himself of Jack's smile and easy-going charm, and tells himself that Jack's had months to get over them. Time to get used to the loss, to make new friends, to fall in love a dozen times. He tells himself that Jack's dancing under new stars, laughing and happy.

It helps.

It helps him get through the funeral, helps him come in the next morning and appoint a new field leader -- Jess, who's spent more time in the shooting range than Jack himself -- give them the specs for the next mission, and leave them to do their jobs while Ianto deals with paperwork. He keeps his headset on, in case they need him, but everything goes smoothly.

It lulls him into a false sense of security, and he's feeling comfortably wistful when the Doctor shows up, barging through his door. "Did you even read these?" he demands, wielding the opened letters in his right hand. "Did you?"

"Jack left them for you." He left Ianto an email and instructions; he'd typed, 'And you, Ianto Jones... I don't know the words for you.' The handwritten letters had only been for the Doctor. "They weren't mine to open."

"They weren't even sealed!"

"That's not the point!" Ianto hears himself yell back. "It doesn't matter that I wouldn't be caught. He didn't want me to read them."

Ianto sucks in a breath. Stands up, pushes his chair back for the excuse to duck his head, to hide his traitorously watery eyes as gathers self-control. He's had months of babysitting demanding personalities, of holding his team together while they mourned and lashed out, and he's done it without crying, without losing his temper.

There's no rational reason for him to lose it now.

He straightens his shoulders and meets the Doctor's angry glare. "I didn't read them. Did you need to know anything else?"

"Oh," the Doctor says, his anger collapsing suddenly, his voice going soft and weary. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Ianto looks away. The gentleness of the Doctor's words, his quiet, heartfelt sympathy, hurts in a way Ianto struggles to ignore. "It wasn't your fault. There's no need to apologise."

"I... assumed. From the way you acted." The Doctor suddenly seems uncomfortable. His words are full of awkward pauses. "At the funeral, I mean. I didn't realise... how much Jack meant. To you."

"It's okay." The smile on Ianto's face is so practiced it almost feels natural. "Regardless of how I felt about Jack, he's gone and I don't need to worry. He's adaptable. He'll make the best of the situation."

The Doctor stares at him for a long time, lost in thought. Then he snaps his fingers. "I'm going to get him," he announces, suddenly bright and confident, "and bring him home."

"You can't. Jack could be anywhere. Any time. It's not possible."

"Oh, you'd be amazed how many impossible things I can do. And in this one," the Doctor waves the oldest letter under Ianto's nose. The page is unlined, mustard-coloured paper covered in faded ink, moving too fast for Ianto to read. Then the Doctor blinks, shuffles it back into the stack, and pulls out a white sheet of lined paper, and says, "Sorry, I mean this one. In this one, Jack says he's wearing a transmitter guaranteed for at least another two thousand years."

Ianto swallows. It's surprisingly frightening to let himself hope. "So?"

"So if you ignore the 47th century -- those things were a dime a dozen back then, although that's a Theurasian dime and that actually buys you a lot of anything -- and adjust the frequency scanner to allow for background radiation from time travel and the cumulative effects of two millennia of Earth's magnetic forces..." The Doctor frowns, staring at the corner of the wall. Then he looks at Ianto and says cheerily, "Be back in a minute."

Ianto's still staring as the Doctor dashes out his office door, jogging across the Hub.

Ianto stays standing there, stunned and wildly optimistic until the team returns, covered in purple goo and muttering. He shoos them down to the showers, makes Travis gather clothes for dry-cleaning while Phuong checks everyone for injuries. If he's a little off-balance, Jess is the only one who notices and all she does is raise one blonde eyebrow as she leaves that night.

Ianto spends that night at the Hub and wakes at his desk the next morning, sore and tired, keyboard imprinted on his cheek. His back objects when he tries to stretch and he feels foolish. At thirty-six, he's too old to sleep like that without feeling it for the next three days. He's too old to expect an impossible rescue mission to work.

There's a tiny part of him that whispers: maybe it did work, maybe Jack didn't want to come back.

Which would be for the best, Ianto decides, it would mean Jack had fallen in love with another time and place, with another life. Indulging in pointless fantasies, in hopes of Jack walking through his door saying his name and kissing him like a firework made of warmth and desire... It's a waste of time. It's a distraction that he doesn't need.

So he teaches himself not to look up every time someone opens his door, not to rush into the Hub every time there's a squeal of delight. He does month-end reports and reminds Travis not to use the word "Torchwood" when getting Chinese delivered (some things never change). He makes Phuong hand in the autopsy reports she's procrastinated over for the last six weeks and forces Jess to relinquish her claim on the alien massage chair and return it to the Hub. He calls Martha and Gwen occasionally, listens to their lives, their trivial complaints about marriage and simple joys of children.

When the Hub door rolls open late on a Tuesday night, he assumes it's Jess having another fight with her girlfriend, coming to the Hub to shoot at cardboard cut-outs and hover around Ianto's doorway until she blurts out a demand for sympathy and advice. Then he hears a second set of footsteps and sighs to himself, going to make sure Phuong hasn't got drunk again and decided to shock some poor bloke by showing him the pterodactyl.

He tidies up his desk first, then turns to leave and Jack's there, hands on Ianto's hips, chest pressing warm and solid against Ianto, kissing him like the last eight months were a fevered dream. Ianto knows this -- knows the smell of Jack and the taste of his mouth, the stretch of Jack's shoulders under his hands, the press of Jack's thighs against his -- but still he opens his eyes to see the proof.

"You're back," Ianto says, smile feeling like an earthquake, like a crack down to his soul, releasing joy and happiness he can't contain. "You're really back?"

Jack's answer is all in his grin. "I'm back."

"Told you I'd do it."

Ianto looks over to see the Doctor standing behind Jack, looking a little smug. At this second, Ianto would gladly organise a parade in his name. "Thank you."

"Would have done it earlier if you'd read the letters." There's a slight whine to the Doctor's tone, but the expression in his eyes -- when he looks at Jack and Jack's smile -- is fond and pleased. "If I'd known they were important to read, not just Torchwood blather, I wouldn't have put it off for so long."

Ianto's confused. "So you would have yelled at me three days after the funeral, instead of waiting a week?"

"What?"

"Linear time," Jack says gently. It takes Ianto a moment to realise he's reminding the Doctor, not trying to explain to Ianto. "For a Time Lord, he's not always great at remembering how time works for other people."

"Hey!" The Doctor almost pouts. "I brought you back. A little appreciation wouldn't go astray."

"Thank you," Ianto says again, hoping the Doctor can hear how genuinely he means it.

Jack laughs and says, "I appreciate it. Now go away so we can get naked."

"Always the way. You drop what you're doing, you come and save people, and then get shooed off," the Doctor mutters darkly as he goes. But Ianto sees him pause in the doorway, looking back for a bare instant, face full of wonder and pride.

Smile like You Mean It

"And you doubted my piloting skills!"

The voice is triumphant, male, English and coming from the Hub. The rest of the team's already left, so Ianto pauses halfway through the budgeting reports, feels under his desk for the small blaster with the centuries-advanced technology and goes to investigate. He steps out of his office, listening.

"I never said you couldn't pilot," Ianto hears a familiar voice say. It's Jack, and something in Ianto's chest unclenches. He loosens his grip on the blaster as Jack says, "I said you tend to miss more often than not."

"I like a little chaos. I like unpredictability. Where would be the fun if you knew where you were going to land every time?"

Ianto takes one further step on the catwalk, and peers down. There's a man in a long, brown coat spinning around so fast the tail flaps by, almost like he's trying to pirouette.

"Six pm, August 23rd, 2013," the man says, coming to a sudden halt. "Just as promised."

"Actually, Ianto says, and they both look up at him, "you've overshot that by a decade."

The stranger frowns, bright eyes going wide for a moment, then narrowing. "He might be right," he says after a moment, tilting his head to the side and scratching under his chin. "It feels like the twenty-twenties. Oh well, close."

Jack gives the man a hearty slap on the back and says, "Nice piloting."

Ianto's about to chide Jack. He's supposed to be in London right now and he knows it. For the last five years, Jack has bitched about having to attend the week-long Alien Intervention Policy conference and every year, he manages to find a way to show up in Cardiff for a night or two. Every year, it’s up to Ianto to get Jack back to London and sitting down at that table. Ianto would be personally flattered, but knows Jack misses the Weevil hunting at least as much as he misses the sex (possibly more).

Something stops him from speaking, though. It's subtle. At first, he's not sure. He stares at Jack, knowing there's something -- something -- that isn't right here and then it's clear. The laugh lines are slightly more pronounced, still subtle, still youthful, but there's a difference there. There's a touch of grey in the hair that hangs across Jack's forehead, catching in the light as he moves his head. There's more grey at Ianto's temples, true, but Ianto's seen photos of Jack from a hundred years ago. Ignoring the fashions and the hairstyles, Jack doesn't look any different.

But now, he looks older.

Ianto licks his lips but he doesn't know what he should ask, let alone how he should ask it. So he settles on the tried and true, "Did you need something, sir?"

Jack -- brilliant, observant Jack -- just shakes his head, looking a little sad. "I knew you'd work it out but I wanted to visit."

Ianto clambers down the steps, two at a time. He's heard Jack happy, and angry, and grieving. He knows Jack's moods from the tone of his voice. Hearing him sound so lonely almost breaks Ianto's heart.

He doesn't question his urges. He just follows his instinct, walking straight up to Jack, sliding a hand along Jack's shoulder -- still broad, still solid, still strong -- and pulls him into a quick embrace.

Jack laughs into Ianto's collar, hands firm against Ianto's back. "Really, I would have been happy just seeing you." Then Jack pulls back and kisses Ianto the way he's kissed him for years: warm and undeniably alive.

"Just as long as you don't have the need to visit yourself," Ianto hears from beside him.

"You are such a prude," Jack replies. He doesn't step away from Ianto, doesn't take his hands back, but Ianto understands. Jack's always been anchored by touch. All the things that they've witnessed, all the losses and the triumphs, all the things Ianto's never had words for, he's always known that simple touch meant more to Jack. The connection of hands and skin and mouths could soothe Jack when no argument could.

He curls a hand around Jack's neck, the pulse heady and insistent beneath his thumb, and takes a moment to really look at the other man. White converse sneakers, bold blue suit, faded red shirt open over a dark tan t-shirt. Nothing that looks too extraordinary, casual and formal at the same time, loose coat over the structured layers. The type of outfit that would almost fit in anywhere but never quite mesh into the crowd.

Ianto recognises him -- the Doctor -- but his memories are hazy with time, and in person the Doctor is full of sharp details. Pale skin, medium brown hair, clean shaven. A little on the lanky side with narrow shoulders and long legs. Even while standing still, hands in his pockets, he gives the impression of being restless and ready to leave at any moment.

Lover had been Ianto's first assumption, but there's a space there between him and Jack. Something about the way he stands beside Jack but doesn't touch. Something telling in the way that Jack stays leaning into Ianto's side, hand low around Ianto's hips, as if absorbing warmth through the contact.

"I'm not letting you interfere with your own time-stream," the Doctor says after a moment. Just when the silence begins to get awkward, he adds, "You'll give me a headache."

Jack snorts in amusement. "Wouldn't want that."

"How long can you stay?" Ianto pushes Jack's hair back from his forehead. It's long, hanging almost down to his eyebrows and makes Ianto think of bad '90s haircuts. Fashions apparently don't change much. "How long has it been?"

"Jack," the Doctor says warningly and Ianto feels Jack stiffen.

"I can't tell you, Ianto. I can't tell you anything. I can't let you remember this, actually."

"I won't tell you," Ianto says.

"Nice theory, but it doesn't always work."

"You don't remember me telling you, therefore I kept my word."

Jack blinks at this piece of logic. "Yes, but--"

"Jack." This time the Doctor's voice is gentler, but still firm. "We have to go. Now."

"Doctor!"

"You're in the city. I can feel it."

"But I--" Jack frowns, memory clearly as good as ever. "Twenty-twenties. Those stupid AIP conferences. I skipped out of them every damn year, so I'm probably on my way back to the Hub right now."

Ianto doesn't want to stop touching Jack, doesn't want to break the contact, but he needs two hands. He fumbles in his pockets, fishes out his key ring, and then slides a very particular key off. It has six numbers engraved on it: 230813. He's been carrying it around for years.

"Take this," he says, closing Jack's hand around it, hoping this is when he's supposed to give it to Jack, hoping he isn't messing something up, "and go to my flat. Stay there--"

"It's a very nice idea, young man, but we really have to be going," the Doctor says, speaking through him. "Two fixed points standing together on the Rift? There's going to be bad consequences."

Ianto rolls his eyes, and turns to the Doctor to explain. "Go back in time precisely eleven years. Use the key to let yourselves into my place."

"What are you talking about?" Jack asks, and the Doctor looks just as confused.

But only for a moment. Then he snaps his fingers and says, "Oh, we've done this all before! You remember us visiting a decade ago."

"Jack stayed for almost a week. He was in Ireland at the time." Ianto frowns, realising how that sounds. "I mean, in 2013, Jack was in Ireland for three weeks."

"Tracking down Torchwood Four," Jack adds, watching Ianto with a guarded expression.

"I called in sick with chicken pox, and we didn't leave my flat," Ianto says, remembering. That first day when they only left the bed to shower and order pizza; all those hours spent naked, pressed against Jack's skin, kissing until his lips felt swollen with it. Falling asleep in Jack's arms and waking up to late morning sunshine. Curling up on the couch with bare feet and coffee, and Jack telling him about alien worlds Ianto would never see, adventures he'd never have. Describing beautiful things Jack had seen and tricks Jack had learnt (never mentioning anything specific about Ianto's life or the twenty-first century), and always keeping a hand somewhere on Ianto's skin.

Ianto remembers meeting the Doctor for a few minutes before he excused himself. He remembers how Jack's smile didn't reach his eyes until the third day.

"You never told me," Jack says softly. He doesn't sound upset, more... wistful.

"You told me not to." Ianto blinks, doesn't know what else to say. So he pulls Jack in and kisses him again. He tries to make it all the things he can't say, all the things Jack should know: that he loves Jack, always will; that whatever Jack needs, whatever it is, Ianto will find a way to give it to him.

Jack's hands stroke his face gently as he steps back. Ianto hopes he understands.

The Doctor is holding his glasses, cleaning them with a tissue. "If you're quite done, I would like to leave before we make the Rift explode."

Jack nods and looks at Ianto for a long moment. Then he shrugs. "Thank you for..."

"For?" Ianto prompts, not really expecting an answer.

"For being..." Jack shrugs again. "You. You make a lasting impression, Ianto Jones."

Ianto smiles to himself, still so easily charmed by Jack. Then he remembers something else.

"Doctor?" he calls out, and the Doctor turns. "When you hear the front door open, duck to the left."

The Doctor frowns. "I don't think you're supposed to tell me that."

"You said it was lucky that I told you. So..."

"Duck to the left," the Doctor says, nodding.

Jack gives him one last, bright grin that doesn't reach his eyes, then turns after the Doctor.

Ianto wonders how long it will take Jack -- his Jack, the one who smiles and means it -- to sneak back into the Hub. He'll use the "secret" tunnel into his office, the one Ianto alarmed years ago.

The alarm beeps in his ear a few minutes later. It's enough warning to allow Ianto to stand over the desk and keep flicking through papers calmly when Jack's arm loops around his hips. "Missed me?"

Ianto turns, catching Jack's mouth. The kiss is sloppy and a touch desperate, but Ianto needs it. Needs to taste Jack's lips, feel his grin, hold him tight. Needs to remember that the Jack under his hands is his (at least for the next few years).

Jack stays so close Ianto can feel his breath on his lips. "You did miss me," he says, and Ianto can hear his smile.

"You're going back to London," Ianto says and Jack pouts, so he adds, "First thing tomorrow morning."

Then Ianto has to kiss Jack again, just to smother Jack's delighted laughter.