Title: The Windhovers: The Fledgling
Author: sarcasticchick
Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Rating: NC-17
A/N: 1. Set between "From Out of the Rain" and "Fragments", although backstory learned in "Fragments" plays into some of the secondary plot.
2. Title taken from a poem which I will post upon completion.
3. I do not own Torchwood, any of its characters, or canon - that is all owned by the BBC and RTD. I am not profitting from this writing venture. All OCs and aliens are mine.
Summary: And the new story begins in the tale of Ianto Jones, man of mystery Windhover born, and confused as ever. A surprise guest or two show up, an adventure might be had, and above all, some questions will be answered. The Fledgling picks up 10 days from where The Windhovers: The Beginning left off, and hopefully you'll enjoy the flight of fantasy as I have plotting and writing it.

***

Ianto straightened his already-straight tie while he waited for the Hub door to roll open, adding a tug at his cuffs for good measure. He wasn't nervous; he swore to himself he wasn't nervous but rather it was just an adjustment of his facade, ensuring the front was as steady and nondescript, as there was absolutely nothing to be nervous about. He was simply bracing for yet another day at Torchwood Three. Another beginning to yet another day, one certain to be as far removed from normal as abnormal could get.

And to think he'd only been back ten days. So much for his relief to be back to Torchwood, to embrace "normal" and reclaim everything he had known before; that feeling had lasted only four hours after Jack had declared him 'safe' to return to work, restricted to light duty for the time.

Before. Before, he had been human. Before, he had been living a comfortable existence, as comfortable as Torchwood could get with a relationship of sorts, a job that was never dull, coworkers who might substitute as friends in a pinch. Before, he wasn't on edge, he didn't approach life with trepidation, and he most certainly didn't fear discovery.

Before, everything had been normal.

Now, he almost wished he hadn't left Lester's.

Not that he wasn't overjoyed to have returned to his job, to his team, to Jack, but there was a quality about his return that just tasted off, ill-fit like pants tailored too short in the leg and too wide at the waist. He'd never heard Gwen's "Ianto, good morning! How are you?" sound so awkward or forced, as though she wasn't entirely sure if she should be asking such a question, to which Ianto replied with an artificial smile and generalized "just fine, thank you. And you?" He did appreciate her effort, though, when Gwen surprised him with almost shy questions about Torchwood One, an interest she had never demonstrated before. She had done her research, maybe she had spoken with Jack or Owen, but Ianto didn't think he'd ever be met again with confusion regarding the extent of London's destruction.

Which was good, since he didn't particularly enjoy remaining silent when met with ignorance.

Owen didn't tease any more, nor call him 'tea-boy' after the initial welcome. In fact, Ianto rarely saw him apart from the morning briefings when he stared at Ianto while his focus was elsewhere and looked away when Ianto glanced at him. Ianto didn't know what to make of it, not that he'd understood Owen any better when Owen had been alive much less now when his temper was on an even shorter fuse. Maybe he just intrigued Owen, a medical mystery to solve. Or maybe the unexplained scared Owen. It ought to -- Torchwood and the unexplained were generally two things that never met a positive outcome and Owen had been around long enough to have learned that lesson. So Ianto avoided Owen just as effectively as Owen avoided him, rather than be met with any more questions he had to fob off or accusations he had to deny, and that seemed to suit Owen just fine as well.

Tosh watched him too, though she was far less suspicious with her observations and more ... well, Ianto wasn't quite sure what to call it, though he rather thought he wasn't the only one who benefited from her daily visits at Providence Park. The first time he'd brought her coffee in the afternoon and sat beside her, she'd been so thrown by his query about the projects she was working on she'd nearly spilled her drink.

That had been six days ago. Now he sat with her for their afternoon coffee break and she talked without prodding, rattling off details that were so often beyond his understanding he couldn't have interrupted even if he'd wanted to. Sometimes he knew what the device she was working on was, and offered a name and application based on 'something he'd seen in the Archives.' He didn't do it too often, mostly for the more dangerous devices when mishandling could mean a tragic consequence, but she never seemed to mind the interruptions. But she got to talk, and Ianto hoped that he was in some way repaying the favor.

Jack. Well, the less thought abut Jack, the better off Ianto would be.

"Mmm....there really is no better beginning to a day than your coffee."

Ianto smiled in greeting, passing Jack's coffee (double strength, black, blue-striped mug) off to him without missing a beat. It'd become routine since he'd returned, meeting over the coffee machine when Ianto arrived in the morning. Sometimes the sounds of footsteps announcing Jack's presence were partnered with a touch -- just a brush against the nape of his neck or the small of his back -- but lately even those had begun to dwindle.

He spent the nights alone of late. If he was honest with himself, the idea of waking up in Jack's bed (or Jack in his) with wings, when Ianto doubted his control, overshadowed any desire to be near him. The solution was simple, he knew it was. But his courage and resolve were equaled by a fear so strangling it choked off any attempt to tell Jack,

An alien, living in a world of humans.

Jack would understand, if anyone could it would be Jack.

Ianto still couldn't do it. And it was hurting them, the "good" they'd talked about on the pier. Jack just thought he was still angry and betrayed over Providence, and he wasn't wrong about that. On some levels, Ianto understood both what had happened and the team's motivations, but at the same time, Jack had known what that place and what Ianto's freedom meant.

They would work through that, eventually. Or rather, Ianto could, as the onus was on him since it was his betrayal and anger.

"Perfect." Jack sipped his coffee in what appeared to be bliss as Ianto sat in the chair opposite Jack's desk. Routine and familiar, something he looked forward to even if the time felt stiff. "You used to talk with me."

Ianto tilted his head in acknowledgment of Jack's statement, though he would argue they never really did. Not until his temporary loss of faculties when the situation forced the conversation. That wasn't entirely true, he supposed, they talked about some things, danced around most of the rest. It was part of what they had been, the previous incarnation of "Jack and Ianto," nothing terribly sensitive or personal, especially not about their past.

It was different, now, this relationship version 2.0. He was different. And all that honesty and forthcoming in the middle of crisis felt nothing but awkward with the crisis removed. He wasn't at all accustomed to having his personal life known beyond the glimpses he gave to the few he could trust. Now, everything he'd told Jack wore like a jumper knit with the armholes in the wrong places and too small a neck.

Not to mention the shared dream, which Ianto refused to think about because it led to far too many questions and implications his mind simply could not comprehend.

Or it could, but the conclusions were as unsettling as they were terrifying.

And Owen, Gwen, and Tosh all knew ... well, he still wasn't exactly sure what all they knew anymore as he wasn't privy to what was discussed while he was gone and he was too afraid to check the CCTV. Better not knowing and acting under the notion that it was only pieces of him scattered about, some in Lester's hands, some in Jack's, some in Dr. Ramamurthy's, and some in Tosh's, but never all in one place.

He knew that was not the making of healthy relationships. But all he had to do was remember Lisa to wonder if he had ever known one.

"We talk." Ianto defended, lazily stretching a hand to touch the coral on Jack's desk, knowing as he did that the habit was turning into a rather large tell and that Jack watched and cataloged every movement. He'd grown quite fond of the coral; it provided a sense of relaxation that soothed him even if the situation between he and Jack turned tense or uncomfortable, whether placebo or something more Ianto wasn't sure. He did wonder if Jack was aware that something alien was growing on his desk, but Jack wasn't one to possess useless, meaningless things. Ianto was far more curious as to what kind of alien it was, as the name was recorded as symbols like a trickster had gained access to the data and rewrote all text in Wingbat font. Infrequent, but different languages weren't uncommon within the data; sometimes he felt so close to understanding that he knew he simply wasn't reaching for the right answer.

A Boolean search with the incorrect parameters.

TARDIS.

An alternate name was TARDIS.

Ianto blinked in surprise as the information unwound in his mind -- a TARDIS, like the one the Doctor traveled with? -- withdrawing his hand casually to allay any of Jack's suspicions. Didn't quite work; Jack's eyes narrowed over the rim of his coffee mug but it was gone just as quickly, replaced by what Ianto could have sworn was petulance. "You and Toshiko talk."

"No," Ianto corrected as he settled back in the chair with his coffee, "I listen. She needs ... I'm comfortable, I think." He didn't add that she'd combed his hair, every day. If anything was to break down walls between individuals, such a simple act of kindness had to rank up there.

He quite literally saw when his words sparked an interest in Jack, an opening into a history of which Ianto didn't know he could ever speak. Those horrors of being trapped within his own mind, a state of consciousness he hoped never to experience again. Not even in memory.

"How much do you remember?"

Ianto wasn't going to touch that question now, perhaps not ever. He simply didn't know if he could. As the rush of discovery and reunion dwindled and his life readopted the slower, Torchwood pace, he found himself returning to the terrors that had only been nightmares before. They were simply too much, as were half the experiences in his life. Mental origami, he called it, the bending and reshaping of old memory into new packages; not the perfect solution but it maintained his sanity, something he'd always valued but now cherished. Less threatening forms carefully tucked away on shelves within his mind, no longer ominously looming but present in the form of a crane, wings -- not folded paper ones but his own -- promising serenity by acknowledging the existence of the experience however giving it no control of its shape.

Not perfect, yet better than chaos.

Hoping that Jack would adhere to the 'rules' for their conversations, Ianto redirected with a question of his own. "What were you trying to do, that night?"

"You-" Jack's jaw snapped shut and for a while there was silence, awkward only in that Ianto had never seen him so utterly flummoxed by a question. The blue-striped coffee mug was turned in his hands eight times before Jack said anything at all, and then he never raised his eyes. "I thought there was a chance that you might've known what was going on, but couldn't tell us. So I ... " He stopped, leaning forward to change the date on his brass-plated calendar. A beautiful antique, but the delay only proved to make whatever Jack was to say seem worse than it most likely was. Ianto half expected him to change the subject.

"I tried to look in to your mind, to break through whatever had you enthralled. But there was just ... nothing. At least it felt like nothing."

Or perhaps it was just as bad as Jack had been intimating.

"I saw nothing." Jack finally looked at him, and Ianto could see the fear even now as Jack chopped the air with hands to emphasize his point. Ianto didn't know whether to be furious at Jack for the attempted intrusion or sympathy. "I didn't think you would -- not that I'd never want you to know but I'm not the most skilled. My instructor, she was amazing. She'd use these anti-gravity alligator clips that'd ... " Jack's voice trailed off, as did his false smile for which Ianto was eternally grateful. "I'm sorry if I hurt you, and I never would have done that without your consent if I'd thought..."

"Desperate times..." Ianto shrugged, though he felt no more reconciled with the truth than he had when it had been Tosh perusing his thoughts. He wasn't altogether sure how he would respond if Jack had asked outside of the situation; Jack was someone he trusted with his life, but the idea of Jack knowing his thoughts was far more intimate than Ianto was comfortable with. In fact, despite Jack's apparent horror at finding 'nothing' within his mind, Ianto was relieved.

The irony that he trusted Jack with his life but not his secret wasn't missed as his secret was his life.

But currently, trust was as thin as Gwen's coffee.

Maybe it wasn't a lack of trust, and Ianto had to admit that he was to blame for the continued monitoring of his life. He'd lied to the team, or at the very least, evaded truth in regard to his disappearance from Providence Park, his absence for a month and apparent return to health. He'd lied to Jack. And while he may have passed the lie detector test and all the medical scans, the captain suspected something was off with Ianto and his story. Something wrong. Different.

So they watched. Again. A new camera in the Archives, two in his home, all poorly disguised and Ianto assumed it was more respect rather than ineptitude on the team's part -- they knew he'd find them, so why bother hiding them. He didn't begrudge them their concern. Hell, according to the Torchwood Handbook, they never should have released him.

They trusted him, but they didn't trust him. Much like after Lisa, only it was harder this time because they were family. His family. Ones who walked on eggshells around a fallen child, hoping the past had been healed but fearing the possibility of relapse or worse.

So they watched. It was why Jack met him at the coffee machine every morning, because he knew precisely when Ianto left home. And it was the only reason why Jack had allowed him to go home, alone.

Ianto could tell them, tell Jack and the surveillance would be dropped. He knew it would be. He just couldn't.

So he dealt with all the suspicion, ignored it, tried to brush it aside and pretend it didn't exist.

Everything was normal.

Except when it wasn't.

The silence stretched and pulled in Jack's office, twisting around the two of them until Ianto swore he could see the intertwining arms of their combined disquiet. He thought of leaving Torchwood behind, thought of it often in fact. It was one alternative to confession, one alternative to revealing to Jack and the rest of his team who he was to stop the ceaseless observation. And Jack had given him the option, way back when the initial buzz of reunion had possibly clouded judgment. Strike that, definitely clouded. They'd returned to the Information Center and fucked in the side closet, unable to even make it to Jack's room. Neither had been thinking about leaving, truth be told. Ianto would have laughed at the very idea had he considered it after the stresses at Lester's.

He'd wanted nothing more than to return and thought nothing of the consequences.

Ianto got his wish.

Didn't mean he liked it.

Whether or not Jack's offer still stood, to leave without RetCon, was most likely a dream long lost. Now that sense had returned, words spoken in the moment were questionable at best and deniable if pushed. Ianto wondered what Jack would say if he did push, if Jack would agree and then Ianto would wake, days, months later with no recollection of who he was or how he got there.

He trusted Jack, he really did.

But Jack was Torchwood.

And fuck if he wasn't starting to think like Dr. Ramamurthy. Was paranoia contagious? Or a by-product of living among humans as a non-human?

Ianto drank the last swallow of his coffee and stood, crossing the path around the desk quickly to collect Jack's empty mug. Mostly empty, but Jack didn't complain when Ianto took it from him. He hadn't touched the coffee since he'd admitted to Ianto what he'd done.

Blame was a little scarce from Ianto's direction. They'd shared a dream, and while in humbleness he'd like to think he'd had nothing to do with it, the facts as they were presented indicated Ianto had possibly breached the same strict code of ethics Jack played by.

He supposed he had that confession to make as well.

"You didn't hurt me," Ianto added softly, which was complete truth. He'd felt nothing during Jack's attempt to peer into his thoughts ... well, nothing relating to Jack's attempt. That period was still muddled, an eternity stretched across a thought with no body, life a hallucination of will and reality. Setting aside the blue-striped mug, Ianto leaned against the desk with his arms crossed. One of them moved, either he or Jack, so their legs pressed against the other, but Ianto wasn't sure who was responsible for the action, only that neither moved away.

Jack was willing to listen, should Ianto decide to talk, that much was exceedingly clear to Ianto. Maybe some day, when Ianto was certain Jack wouldn't kill him for the betrayal. Or for being a species that was feared across the universe. Ianto instinctively doubted that, but the thought had crossed his mind. And maybe some day, Ianto wouldn't, by protecting himself, push Jack away.

Maybe some day they'd be good.

Ianto redirected his eyes when Jack raised his head, the eye contact with this degree of intimacy far too much to handle for the moment. "I just ... I knew you were there." He smiled, an action both fond and rueful in reminiscence, while he watched the data scroll by meaninglessly on the screen hanging on the far wall. It was easier than looking at Jack. "I saw you, that night and sometimes other times. You were this ... light. This beautiful, white-gold light. And I knew ... you were there. I saw you watching me."

"You were aware ... the whole time?"

The surprise in Jack's voice startled Ianto away from the second screen with a swirling image to glance down at him. He hadn't moved, fingers steepled at his chin with his leg pressed against Ianto's, but his eyes ... he was cataloging, Ianto recognized. Gathering information and cataloging so that he could figure Ianto out. Understand what was going on. Discern just what Ianto wasn't telling him. But there was more there, and Ianto uncomfortably realized it was pity. Perhaps not pity, sympathy. Empathy? At any rate, far closer to knowing precisely what Ianto may have experienced or thought than he could accept. "Would you care for another coffee? I've Archival work that will carry me late into the afternoon, and I'd hate for you to suffer withdrawal."

Jack didn't say anything, not for a long while. At least the time it took for the blood to begin pounding in Ianto's ears and his heart raced under Jack's study. It was an irrational reaction, he knew it was. Whether it was brought on by the fear that Jack would redouble his efforts to get an answer, maybe even order Ianto to respond, or simply from an unwillingness to share what had been both a humiliating and edifying experience for want of control. But, the anxiety was there, quickening his breath so much so that Ianto had to consciously force himself to maintain a steady rate.

"Keep your comm link with you," Jack ordered without bothering to pretend it was something other, and despite the blank expression, Ianto could read the disappointment and frustration as easily had it been scribed in ink on the papers on Jack's desk. Not just any papers, reports for UNIT. With doodles in the margins, Ianto noted with a scowl, knowing he'd have to replace the vandalized pages before he sent them on to the General.

Doodles bearing a frightening resemblance to the marks Ianto bore and the ones which had decorated the walls and skies in his dream.

Their dream.

Too fucking weird. "Of course." Not that Jack wouldn't be watching from the CCTV in the Archives, but at least he wouldn't be able to read what Ianto was researching down in the Archives from the footage. He straightened and gathered the mugs again, ignoring the feeling of cold on his leg where Jack's had pressed so tight it had felt like fire. That moment was long lost, thanks to him; but honesty and forthcoming weren't the answers now. Not for the moment. Not until Ianto could get his hands on control far better than he held now.

Though he was fairly certain that withholding things and attempting to work through them on his own was completely against healthy trauma-recovery rules. Not that he cared. He'd dealt with the destruction of Torchwood One on his own.

Perhaps not the best example to use to his credit.

"Ianto."

He'd made it nearly to the door when Jack stopped him, nothing more physical than the touch of his voice stalling Ianto's exit. Exit, not retreat, Ianto reaffirmed. He spun on one heel, facing Jack with a carefully crafted smile of indifference. "Be needing that second coffee, then?"

"No." The twist of Jack's lips, both angling downwards at a dramatic pitch banished any thought of escaping before additional questions were raised, more perspectives pushed. And apparently coffee was not on Jack's mind, though given the alternative Ianto wished it was. At least brewing the perfect cup, a practice he'd perfected so long ago, was easy. Jack stood, without his usual grace though with the confidence Ianto recognized as so innately Jack, with his hands stuffed in his pockets and voice hoarse and low. "I was there. Every day."

The statement gave Ianto pause, time had lost meaning while Ianto had been in Providence Park and he hadn't realized it'd been every day that he'd watched Jack through his window into the outer world while Jack watched him. It took a while before Ianto remembered to consciously breathe; his body forgetting all function as he tried to understand the words Jack spoke. It wasn't that he didn't understand the words, the words themselves were easily defined. Context, however, tweaked and shifted the words around Jack until they molded into shapes of stormy grey in a land of blue lightning, words spoken within shifting dreamscapes.

But sharing dreams was impossible. Except when it was.

"Thank you," Ianto finally said once he'd realized time had continued forward without his permission, though Jack never made to move. He just stood there, hands in his pockets, and Ianto had to wonder what it had been like for Jack to witness everything as it unfolded. Fear depended only upon perspective. "I ... thank you." So much Ianto wanted to say, so much he couldn't, not because he didn't want to, but because the words simply escaped him, leaving him struggling to say more. Instead he stood near the doorway, two empty mugs in hand, one blue striped and one cranberry with nothing more on his tongue than a 'thank you' for everything Jack had done and what it meant to him.

It didn't seem to matter as Jack nodded once, maybe he understood far better than Ianto could explain. He didn't wait, though, just gripped the mugs tighter until he was certain the ceramic would crack and returned the nod before fleeing (albeit a tad clumsily, to his embarrassment) to wash up the mugs before the others arrived.

***

His method was easy, really. Ianto would pick up multiple files from the section he needed for his archival project -- really nothing more than refiling and re-cataloging the growing set of books, documents and gadgets gathered through the history of Torchwood Three as well as boxes upon boxes of retrieved technology from Torchwood One -which were surrounded by the sections and files that were truly the focus of his "project." He'd mask his actions by replacing the files all at once, burying the ones not sanctioned strictly by Torchwood research amidst the ones for his project.

That was one thing nice about hard copy research. No data trail to wipe.

Ianto searched for everything, from the Windhovers to angels to winged humanoids to the markings and uncovered some nasty creatures that would join his nightmares (Weeping Angels? He was never looking at a stone statue of an angel the same way again). Nothing sounded like what little he knew of himself, and there was no mention of the Windhovers.

None.

At least, so far. He had only really made it through the obvious searches and was beginning on the obscure.

Though he did find out that Lester's species used the third eye in their mating rituals, something his imagination could have done without.

The planet Halcyon turned up only one result that he could find, a mention buried in fabled planets of lore, lending confirmation to his suspicions that the annotation '(d)' in reference to the planet meant 'destroyed' or 'dead'. Of course it would; why would his search be made remotely easy when it was so much more entertaining for fate to fuck with him while dangling tidbits with little to no relevance to his crisis at hand.

He'd been searching for days now, every moment spent in the Archives slogging through reams upon reams of information and nothing within Torchwood was good enough. He could ask Jack, Ianto proposed to himself, but that thought was just as quickly dismissed and filed away with the hundreds of false leads and dead ends.

Ianto did do work on his actual project, his actions appearing for all intents and purposes on the CCTV as within reason and function of his archival project. None of the others asked for details, and Jack just signed off on it without looking at the project specs, leading Ianto to believe he was being humored by permitting him to work on it. An alternate and yet equally viable thought could be that the team might think he was escaping and finding comfort within the stacks of aged tomes and artifacts after his past few months.

Which was in part truth. There was simply something so inherently calming about fingering the old, faded leather-bound books and preserved manuscripts, quite literally touching a history (and a future) that few in the world would ever know.

An alarm pierced Ianto's thoughts, the sound so loud as it bounced off the vaulted ceiling and stone walls encasing the Archives that he flinched reflexively. Internal alarms, his mind quickly proffered, rapidly filtering through all eventualities; an intruder in the Hub. Quickly, he crossed the floor to the far wall, tension winding every muscle to springing point as they waited for the command to fire. It wasn't just nerves, it wasn't fear, there was something more, unexplained, unidentifiable, but certainly there, screaming for attention even as a sense of calm poured over him, beginning in his hair, it felt like, and rinsing over him like he'd stepped under a shower head spraying water. Cool, contrasting with the fiery adrenaline burning through his veins with the rapid pace of his heart.

Knowing his luck, he'd suffer a heart attack in the Archives and die before the invasion ever reached the level.

If he had any luck at all, the intruder would not be a Dalek or Cyberman.

Ianto tapped his earpiece with one hand as the other punched in the code on the panel set into the wall. "Jack?" A portion of the wall slid open, revealing a small cache of weapons. Nothing that would work against a creature of metal, but if the intruder wore flesh, then the handgun might do a little damage. A pitiful defense, but the best he could do within the Archives. Once he got closer to the Hub, he could ascertain the situation and hit the other caches hidden throughout Torchwood Three as well if necessary. Unless, of course, the place went into full lockdown and then what he had would simply have to do. In fact, Ianto was relatively surprised that the place hadn't been -

Silence. The absence of the blaring alarm was almost tactual, his skin feeling lighter without the weight of the alarm pressing against it. His heartbeat took the place of the klaxon, thrumming with the pulse of a tympani measuring cut time. Alla breve.

His mind couldn't make up if time was racing or crawling, or somewhere muddled in the middle. Tucked away in the hollowed halls of the Archives where common time was lost in the history of the past and future, time could have meant anything.

He could have been standing there, staring at the panel with the gun in hand for hours while listening to the silence.

Or maybe just a quantum-second.

"Ianto."

Jack's voice in his ear started Ianto away from the wall, first spinning on his heel towards the door until he realized the voice came from his comm.

He'd have to remember to delete that embarrassing little bit of footage from the CCTV, later, when the present crisis was averted.

"Come up to the Hub, there's someone here I want you to meet."

"Is there a threat to the base?" Ianto waited ten seconds before he scowled as his question was met with no response, not even radio clicks, which only proved to confuse him even more. Jack had sounded almost ... excited ... yet his words had contained none of the Standard Operating Procedure for Base Incursion code words calling off the alarm, or indicating that the threat still existed. In fact, Jack's words were nowhere close to resembling code.

Typical Jack, defying all Rules and Regulations.

Unless it wasn't Jack at all but an impostor unaware of any protocol.

Ianto opted for caution before haste, taking time to tuck a stun gun into a sock and the handgun into the waistband of his trousers at the small of his back. History had taught him well as he crept along the walls, avoiding the internal CCTV monitoring the halls, though avoiding the cameras would hardly have saved him from the Cybermen and Daleks (how he saved himself at Torchwood One he preferred not to think about, in fact, couldn't remember at all). Wasn't difficult to navigate through Torchwood Three; he'd quickly learnt when he'd been taking care of Lisa how to avoid detection as he moved about. Or deliberately place himself at a certain location at a specific time.

He heard Jack's boisterous laughter before he actually saw anyone, a sound that both relieved him and annoyed. On the one hand, the chances that the base was under attack were rapidly dwindling. On the other, it meant Ianto had spent the time since the alarm in a constant state of adrenalin-fueled alertness and coming down off that was going to wreck his evening. Not that he'd had anything planned, but the possibilities would probably be discarded in favor of stumbling into his bedroom and falling face-first on his bed.

Jack could have informed him that there was no threat.

And if it was a guest in the form of one of Jack's old Time Agency buddies a la John Hart, Ianto was going to be especially perturbed. He'd played eye-candy enough for one of Jack's exes.

"Ianto! What took you? I've-"

Whatever Jack said next was lost to the wind as Ianto whipped the gun from his trousers and aimed it on the visitor so instinctively he couldn't remember a conscious thought to arm himself.

Not that he had much conscious thought as information overwhelmed him, tumbling past perception. Not sight and not thought but awareness in a litany of the universe's truths.

Names.

Planets.

Species.

"-Ianto, stand down! He's not-"

"-oh my god-"

"-the fuck did he get a weapon? Put down the gun before-"

"-not Torchwood One! He is not the enemy-"

"-relapse?-"

Ianto heard the commotion and clamor of voices and ignored them just as easily, letting chaos flow right over him and along the straight line of the gun to the man in his sights. With everyone else he'd encountered, it was brief. A moment of awareness of who they were, just a blip upon his consciousness as information he hadn't realized was missing appeared in the blanks.

This ... it kept going. The list kept growing. Names, so many names. People, places and things Ianto didn't recognize, didn't wish to recognize as he ruthlessly shoved aside the deluge of '(d)' annotated charges and allowed the rage to curl about his core.

Rage and distress, confusion and horror.

Fuck, he couldn't breathe.

Struggling to maintain a grip on everything from consciousness to physical form (and oh how instinctively he wanted to go back to his winged state and embrace fury as his body, mind, hell, spirit if there was one kept demanding), Ianto shook off the touch which had fallen on his arm. When the touch returned, he may have growled at the person.

He'd never admit to it, and CCTV didn't capture sound so there would be no physical evidence.

His eyes never left the man in front of him, half an eye down the sight of the gun to ensure a true aim. The man who made no attempt to move or even protest the threat of the weapon.

The Doctor.

The alias itself made Ianto's hands shake, not in fear but as a body physically battered by contrary information. Ianto knew the Doctor had played a role at Torchwood One and the defeat of the Cybermen and Daleks; Ms Hartmann had done little to hide her elation at 'capturing' the Doctor. And yet, there was a past. Future. An existence of so much destruction ...

"-stand down, that's an order, Ianto.-"

But Ianto didn't. He wouldn't. He knew of the commotion about him, of Owen with a needle of sedative ready and threatening but warded off after a rapid retrieval for the stun gun at his ankle; even if Owen was technically dead he still moved, which required electrical impulse. The jolt of electricity would at least temporarily slow him, long enough for Ianto to evade the needle.

All of this flashing through his mind in the span it took to blink, his eyes never leaving the Doctor.

And in the far corner of his mind, still the list of charges grew.

As the information swirled and splintered fractals as connections were made to the destroyed, even as the tales Jack had spoken of the Doctor attempted to align themselves within the gaps to balance, the overpowering twist of extremes deafened the clamor of everyone shouting for his attention and felt like a fire-brand through his chest, burning or perhaps squeezing his heart until he had to consciously force himself to breathe. Short gasps of air smelling of buried stone punctuated the silence, forged by deeds so terrifying in scope it hurt. Physical, down to the fingertips holding the gun going numb and the acidic burn of bile chewing away at the stretch between gut and throat.

It made him sick. Looking at the Doctor ... fuck. How could anyone...?

Ianto had little time to continue the question as it was banished from his mind; no, not banished, blanketed. Wrapped in a fuzzy warmth that tasted of hot cocoa and felt like a lit fireplace on a frigid day. It was distracting yet not worrisome; he had no misgivings or fear only ... comfort. Like when, after a long day, he'd run his fingers through Jack's hair, whose entire body would unwind with the repetitive motion. So too Ianto felt himself physically respond, the escalating tension and stress rapidly deflating to alleviate the pressure in his chest, the weight dissolving as the pain melted.

Straightening with resolve and far more calm than he had initially felt, Ianto faced the Doctor with little hesitation in his mind, his thoughts once again flowing freely about him instead of the frantic, twisting chaos they had been just moments earlier.

The Doctor didn't miss it either, and if his eyes widened, Ianto assumed it was simply a trick of the Hub's lights.

"Ianto, what do you see?"

Jack's voice, deceptively calm and tinged with wariness, sounded as clear to Ianto's ears as if he had been speaking only to him in an empty room. Gone were the swirling, muddled tones of words spoken but recognized only for their cadence rather than content. And gone was the urge to confront the Doctor in full Windhover splendor, though the awareness tickled in a corner Ianto sometimes wished to deny that he could, and it might be preferable to how he appeared now. Though, that made as little sense as why he'd suddenly found a sort of peace amidst the overwhelming song of destruction.

"Oh, I'd say what he sees is precisely what he's supposed to see."

The Doctor raised his hands in the universally understood sign of surrender -- maybe not surrender but acquiescence to Ianto's strategic position, and that threw him off far more than the acquiescence itself. Or maybe it was the fact that the Doctor seemed to know more about Ianto than the others recognized. Wouldn't surprise Ianto in the least, though how much and why were a mystery. Maybe he smelled different, though Jack's accurate sense of taste and smell would tend to disprove that logic.

Realizing his focus had drifted, Ianto raised his chin and leveled the gun, again, just for good measure. Not that he'd actually shoot the Doctor. No, as his mind more logically addressed the situation, shooting the Doctor was not in any plan or possible outcome. No matter how guilty he might be for the innumerable charges held against him, death was not proper.

He really didn't know what the alternative was, but it most certainly wasn't death. No matter the charges.

Ianto felt his jaw clench as he tried to figure out how best to proceed under ever-shifting perspectives, not thoughts blowing in disarray but rather shoved into alignment as though they always belonged. Maybe they did belong. Belong? Existed. They existed and simply added themselves to awareness.

The Doctor. Standing here. In the Hub with Jack defending him. That had to mean something as well. He trusted Jack, and Jack believed in the Doctor, not the monster unfurling in great detail within his mind.

So many deaths. So much destruction.

And it all followed in this man's wake.

"Ianto?" Jack's face appeared in his field of vision, wavering just to the left of center, close enough to stop Ianto if he chose, but the urgency appeared to have drained from the situation, at least from Jack's perspective and tone. Maybe it had. "Ianto, listen to me. Torchwood One is gone. Their rules don't apply anymore."

What the hell was he going to do now? He'd pulled a gun on the Doctor, Jack's friend and at times Ianto wondered if "lover" ever factored in, and threatened Owen with a stun gun. Ianto wasn't panicking, not yet, but gods he could feel himself crawling closer to that precarious edge as he couldn't offer reason for the apparent irrationality of his actions. They would bloody section him again after this. Suspend him at the very least.

But he wasn't wrong. And the Doctor knew it as well as he. That meant something. It had to.

Reassurance flooded his mind, and if it weren't for working so long at Torchwood Ianto would have recoiled at the sensation, but it was no more abnormal than he. He knew, he knew he wouldn't go back. He'd escape. He'd flee with ... whatever this was.

Understanding.

Loyalty.

Kinsmanship.

Ianto didn't have to answer Jack, didn't have to worry about moving or fighting as Tosh's computer's alarm alerted Torchwood Three to Rift activity. He didn't move from his vigilant stance, nor did the gun ever waver or his eyes move from the Doctor.

But he wasn't going to shoot; Ianto knew he wasn't. He just couldn't bring himself to lower the gun in face of such great threat to Earth. It was just inherently wrong. Forget the trouble outside the Hub's doors, they had trouble here.

"Jack, reports of multiple blue slug-like creatures coming in." Tosh's voice cut through the silence after she'd disabled the alarm. Ianto didn't even need to look over at her to know she was standing at her desk, typing away while monitoring multiple screens containing CCTV footage, data reports and various diagnostics she constantly ran.

Scary smart, their Tosh.

"Mellonians from the planet Crabb! Haven't seen one of them in ages. Sticky sort, but delightful hosts. They play backgammon, did you know? Backgammon! Well, not backgammon like you know it, but the theory's still the same. Sort of. Not remotely, actually. But they use colored chips and twelve-sided die on a game board with little triangles."

Ianto felt his stare shift to one more of incredulity than animosity as the Doctor raved about the entertainment skills of the Mellonian. A quick glance about, eyes never leaving the Doctor but observing on the periphery, indicated that the entire team carried similar expressions, except for Jack who just looked amused. Returning his attention solely on the Doctor, Ianto had to seriously wonder how the fuck this man could be responsible for such destruction.

Then again, who would have guessed Ianto Jones would have hidden a Cyberman in the basement of the Hub for a year or had wings when he put his mind to it?

Not exactly the most easily read.

Besides, the Doctor's eyes told a different story and he was no mere mortal.

"They do get a bit tetchy when they get hungry, tend to start absorbing any carbon-based object. Lost a coat to them once, walked in on a splicing ceremony with no gift. Take your team, offer to take the Mellaonians to a secluded coastline, they'll be happy and keep to themselves."

Ianto wondered if the Doctor realized he'd just ordered Jack about his own base, though Jack wasn't jumping to defend himself. Anyone else, and the Captain would have put them in their place, quite possibly with no memory of events and a distinct lack of testicles. Of course, it was the Doctor -- some vainglorious being who'd mesmerized Jack -- which seemed to discard all of what Ianto had identified as Jack Harkness' rules, up to and including abandoning one's team.

Irritated with the shift in thought, not to mention the lack of concern for him, the man holding the gun, as Jack and the Doctor carried on their conversation, Ianto felt the childish urge to fire the gun into the air, just to draw the Doctor's attention, and perhaps figure out how the hell he was going to proceed.

Petulance -- not just a human emotion, it would seem.

There was something more, there had to be. He couldn't kill the Doctor; not when there was no immediate threat to himself or team which necessitated death. He'd be no better than the mercenary Judoon, and the thought of such a connection was so revolting that Ianto felt physically nauseous. But what was he supposed to do?

"Oh no, and leave you to tinker around my base? Do I have to remind you of that time on Nythos?"

As Jack stubbornly crossed his arms in a standoff with the Doctor, Ianto realized that all was lost. Not lost, per say, but any hope of apprehending the Doctor for any of his outstanding charges or sending him away to protect the Earth from whatever destruction was trailing in his wake vanished with Jack's teasing tone. He didn't even know if he could do anything given Jack's defense of the Doctor and his own refusal to admit the truth of who and what he was. It'd just be blamed on Torchwood One, or a recurrence of the nightmares before.

Before. Gods, he acted like it was years ago, not weeks, since he'd learned that there was cause behind his visions and the terrors of the days.

Fuck, Jack might even go with the Doctor again.

With reservation, Ianto clicked on the safety and withdrew from his gun-ready stance, quietly stepping aside without pulling any attention to himself. There was nothing he could do at the moment in regards to the Doctor. Nothing. And while guilt and responsibility gnawed away at his resolution, he pushed it aside. Jack was the leader of Torchwood Three, and if he chose to go on a bloody chase for these Mellonians, Ianto would have everything ready that the team might need to transport or contain them.

It was his duty. Even if his personal duty felt absolutely shredded.

Owen's eyes tracked him as he moved, probably waiting for some indication of mental collapse. Maybe it was concern. Ianto couldn't care less as he began mentally tallying everything he needed to load in the SUV. SUVs. They should take two if it was a transport job...

"I won't be alone, Mr. Jones will keep me company."

Ianto stopped. Everyone stopped. If the Hub had a pulse, even that stopped as well. For having wanted attention earlier, the attention now was unnerving. No one focused their attention on the man who had actually voiced the pronouncement, which Ianto found distinctly unfair. It wasn't like he'd asked the Doctor to request he stay. If anything, he wished to be as far from the man as possible.

"It's probably not more than a three person job, right, Jack? I could stay here and monitor any police response ... "

"No." Jack cut Gwen off with an added sharp wave of his hand, surprising Ianto with the vehemence of his response as Ianto wasn't entirely sure the emotional response wasn't directed at him. Jack's stare certainly was, his eyes boring into Ianto's to the point he assumed there would be two holes at the back of his head from the intensity. But what Ianto had done to deserve any of it, he wasn't sure, though the tiny debacle with the gun had most certainly soured Jack's attitude towards him. However, Jack wouldn't have taken him to task in front of the team for it, would he? Ianto knew he was kidding himself, of course Jack would have; standard leadership practices were never really Jack's forte. "This requires the team, so I'll need you there. Ianto and the Doctor can stay back and update us as necessary."

He couldn't stop the wince at being so offhandedly dismissed from inclusion in the 'team', despite recent history indicating the contrary. It still stung, and as Ianto resolutely remained expressionless as Jack continued his unnerving stare, he felt the first temptations of doubt enter his thoughts regarding his place in Torchwood. Was he still around, memories intact, because Jack didn't trust Retcon to effectively wipe out the history of Torchwood from his mind? Was he there for amusement? Because no one else wished to clean the lavatories? Was his relationship with Jack -

No. Ianto categorically denied any such thought and banished it from his mind . While their relationship had fallen askew over the past days, Jack must trust him. Otherwise why he was permitting Ianto full access within the Hub and all systems if he doubted Ianto's loyalty? He was being monitored, but Ianto had to believe that was for concern of his safety, not because the rest believed him a threat to Torchwood.

Still, Ianto couldn't help but acknowledge the unease and disappointment gnawing away at his insides.

Then again, he was lying to his team and to his ... to Jack. Perhaps he deserved it.

Jack moved first, though he never turned away. He just pointed in a general direction (the coffee machine, Ianto noted, and he certainly hoped that Jack wasn't going to instruct them to take the machine along with them as a gift to the Mellonians) with orders for Gwen to phone Rhys and borrow a lorry while they loaded up in the SUV. And still his eyes never left Ianto's, making Ianto desperately wish he could actually read Jack's thoughts so that he'd have some inkling as to what Jack was trying to impress upon him. Most likely along the lines of "if you shoot the Doctor I will hunt you down and you'll beg for mercy," but Ianto couldn't be certain of the tilted frown and lips smashed into a thin line, an expression of Jack's Ianto typically associated with visible restraint and masked agitation, not threat of harm. Threat of anything, really.

Oh, to have Tosh's necklace in this instance.

Ianto raised his chin -- defiance really his only viable option in face of absolute confusion -- and nodded as though he understood what the hell Jack meant in a gesture that reminded him far too much of his return from suspension following Lisa's death. Not since then had he been so uncertain of Jack's intentions, but the one thing he desperately latched on to was that Jack believed that he would not shoot the Doctor in his absence. Perhaps it wasn't as bad as it appeared, maybe Jack was just following whatever orders the Doctor had (not so) subtly laid out for Torchwood Three.

But damned if the lack of trust wasn't unfounded. He was lying to Jack, lying to the rest of the team. He was breaking every promise and betraying Jack quite possibly worse than he had with Lisa, because at least then he hadn't fought so hard to establish that confidence. As well, he should have mentioned his unease to Jack, in case there was an additional threat to the Hub. Ianto knew of at least fourteen protocol violations he was incurring by not saying anything despite awareness of a threat. But he couldn't, and most importantly, he knew he wouldn't.

"Jack..."

Ianto blinked in surprised as the natural sounds of the Hub battered him from all sides ones more, from the cascading water in the tower to the low whirrs of computer fans to Myfanwy rustling her wings in her aerie to Tosh's voice, quavering as she commanded Jack's attention. He'd lost himself and time within Jack's stare, and he was none the wiser for the action. Disgustingly unsettling, or perhaps that was the continued presence of the Doctor who would be upsetting him greater if not for the dampening touch softening the harsh edges of knowledge that had threatened to overwhelm him earlier.

Jack seemed just as surprised for the loss of time, however, and that soothed Ianto's pride just a bit as Jack's face remained like marble save for the twitch of his cheek, right near his eye, a suppressed grimace manifesting if one was as familiar with the man as Ianto. The hesitant step forward was something different, however, something new for Ianto's mind to rapidly process with all the other information circulating. Panic-threat, was Jack to stun him before he left? Tie him up to protect the Doctor? Warning? Confusion as he stopped, maybe reassuring hug though they were far from that point in their relationship, months ago, when Ianto may have believed it possible but the likelihood no longer probable. He'd done enough damage through his withdrawal from Jack that they never really touched.

Whatever it was vanished before Ianto could understand, the brief flash of openness buried beneath an artificial megawatt smile that lacked any warmth or honest emotion. "You two kids don't cause any trouble while we're gone." Ianto didn't move as Jack stepped forward in full confidence and typical captain arrogance -- the previous hesitation long forgotten -- and remained still even as Jack leaned forward to say whatever he intended for Ianto's ears only. "We'll talk, later. I want answers."

And for a moment, just a tiny fraction of a moment that tasted fleetingly of the swirling purple and jade lightning upon the pier, Ianto believed Jack was going to kiss him,there in front of the others and the Doctor. Jack was so close that Ianto could smell the coffee on his breath mingling with the hint of 51st century pheromones and he had to admit that combination fueled by intensity was heady as hell. On any other day, at any other time ...

Jack pulled away before Ianto could form a decision, or perhaps even a question, just the hint of thought of missing Jack before it vanished with a pivot, a sharp angular turn towards the cog door and the team waiting impatiently for their leader to rush into the unknown once again to risk life and limb for the sake of Britain.

They kept doing it over and over, no questions asked, and Ianto wondered how long it would be before his team failed to reappear in full at day's end. The life of a Torchwood employee was short, and he nor Jack would always be there to protect. However on this day, Ianto believed the team far more safe out in the world fighting aliens than inside the Hub with two aliens they didn't know to hunt.

It would have amused Ianto if the truth wasn't so troublesome.

Ianto watched as the team filed out. Jack's great coat slipped past the cog door as it rolled to a close, symbolically cutting him off from his team, from the outside world, but at the same time an underlying thread of reassurance that the Doctor would remain contained within Torchwood, though Ianto didn't fool himself into believing that the Doctor couldn't leave when and where he damned well chose.

"They'll be fine, the Mellonians are generally a peaceful lot."

Spinning slowly on his heel, Ianto quickly calculated the distance from his person to the Doctor's based on the sound of his voice, reaching the unnerving conclusion that he was far closer than when Jack had left. He couldn't put a finger on it, the root of the anxiety setting every nerve aflame and hair on edge, but it was truly visceral, not imagined, as even his fingernails felt like they were curling in rejection of the Doctor. He'd felt it before, with Wesley, with various aliens Torchwood had encountered that had truly been deviant of nature, but Ianto couldn't reconcile the revulsion with the savior of worlds Jack had painted with his stories and respect. They didn't fit. They just didn't.

Before he finished rounding on the Doctor, Ianto applied the smile he used for difficult visitors to the Information Center. Jack trusted him not to shoot the Doctor while he was away; Ianto would honor him by his restraint. "Would you care for a coffee, sir?" Just as he'd figured, the man stood just a few steps away, staring at him with near the same intensity that Jack had earlier. For a frightening moment before he reassured himself, Ianto feared that somehow he'd changed back and his marks were showing.

Contrary to what Ianto expected, the Doctor's face broke out into a broad smile that Ianto believed was actually truthful.

The Doctor shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked on his feet in such fashion Ianto hadn't seen but on a giddy tot and the man ratcheted up in Ianto's 'disturbing' scale. "So you're the Ianto Jones I keep hearing about."

Ianto settled his hands on his hips and attempted to maintain an air of professionalism, despite the urge to rattle Jack for having apparently discussed him with the Doctor as well as the overwhelming craving to remove this current threat to Earth. It wasn't just a whim, he knew. Instinctual, perhaps? Odd, but not completely unexpected given his previous experiences. Disarming, for certain, as Ianto knew logically it was a function of who he had become, not who he once knew himself to be. And if that was no longer true, did he have any clue who he was currently?

Professionalism. He could maintain professionalism no matter how much his mind screamed at him that the figure in front of him was responsible for such horrible things. As it was, Ianto held his gaze to the left of the Doctor, just over his shoulder. Information still bled into his awareness like a punctured balloon, but at least the effect was tolerable. "It's possible, though the name is quite common. A tour of the base, then, if you prefer? I'm afraid the grand entrance was negated by your arrival within the Hub, but I'll attempt to compensate."

"You really don't like me, do you?" Ianto couldn't quite mask his wince as the Doctor side-stepped directly into the path of his eyes; grinning like a fool, which did nothing for Ianto's patience while he put on a pair of glasses with thick brown frames. At the rate the Doctor was going, Ianto wasn't quite sure there'd be pieces of the Doctor left before Jack's return. Not that he'd do anything himself, but Janet might find this particular type of alien tasty. "Why is that, Mr. Jones?"

The Doctor stepped into his field of vision yet again, a shift-step dance that seemed to amuse the Doctor more than it ought and Ianto began silently cursing the Doctor, his ancestors, and everyone remotely connected to the name. Including Jack. And even Martha, despite the woman's charms. "Liking you is irrelevant, otherwise I would not have hesitated to shoot you." Ianto smiled, though not at the Doctor but rather the memory his words dredged up. He wasn't proud of shooting Owen, but he would do it again, if necessary, for the sake of the world and for Jack. For Jack, mostly, and that thought did frighten him a bit. "If you'd rather, I can take you to the surface."

"Nope! You're far more interesting." Despite his best efforts to remain emotionless, Ianto couldn't help it as his eyebrow rose in disbelief and cynicism while the Doctor spoke. The man was definitely mad, perhaps not in the same fashion as he had been diagnosed, but if Jack tolerated this lunacy, than why had he ever been committed? "Besides, it unnerves Jack to think about me roaming about his base so what point would there be in leaving it? Come then, Mr. Jones, Martha asked for my help for Jack's partner, though I'm rather surprised to find you here as she'd implied that you were, ah, in an alternate location for safe keeping. Partner? Is that the term used now? Partner ... lover ... husband ... ooh! The Kleetons on the planet Pyrhon -- lovely place, dreary weather -- they say, well, translated, 'heart'. Isn't that charming? In fact, I was there ... "

As the Doctor babbled -- Ianto really had no better term for the sheer deluge of words spilling forth from his mouth -- Ianto listened with half an ear focused on the actual content, but most of his attention was directed at what the Doctor was doing. He roamed while he talked, picking up various gadgets from everyone's workstations, inspecting them, sometimes prodding them with a finger before setting them down again with a seemingly careless lack of respect. Once he even brought out his sonic screwdriver, a name Ianto could have stated from his experience at Torchwood One without the name supplying itself within his mind. A directed 'zap' from the screwdriver and Ianto knew instantly that the device would work when Tosh returned. He didn't have to wait for Tosh's return however, as the Doctor smiled in boyish glee and flipped a switch Ianto assumed was the 'on' button. The Hub was instantly filled with light, nothing glaring or brilliant but a speckled rainbow of color like a million multi-faceted prisms shattering white light, which reflected off every surface, including a number of blotches decorating the Doctor's face and he assumed his own as well.

Ianto knew the name before the Doctor spoke.

"Altaran disco ball. Brilliant."

As he spoke the points of light moved, the colors changing in tempo with the pattern of the Doctor's voice. Ianto wasn't sure what disturbed him the most -- that disco wasn't limited to just earth, or that the Doctor found the promise of a billion dancing lights in ever-changing colors which followed rhythm and volume set to music as an enlightening experience. Ianto rather thought he himself would be suffering vertigo as a result in a matter of moments from just the vocally influenced pattern much less any rapid rhythm or changes in tone. He figured it was fairly easy to assume that the Altarans did not possess human vision or neural processing.

Then again, he didn't either. Or maybe he did. Ianto simply hadn't evaluated that yet.

Thankfully, the Doctor just as quickly turned the device off and returned it to Tosh's desk before Ianto could politely request the action. His head was already pounding from the tension and adrenaline and the dizzying lights were simply making it worse. Not that the Doctor appeared to be aware of or in any way concerned for Ianto's well-being; he rather believed the Doctor was actually only conscious of his own self but he firmly resolved not to speak of such things. Giving the thoughts room to breathe and grow within his mind would simply encourage a slip of the tongue at an inopportune moment and while the Doctor appeared almost childish in his apparent curiosity, Ianto knew him for what he was. Dangerous. Deadly.

"Don't!" The command slipped from his lips before Ianto could stop them, his hand out-stretched before he consciously evaluated the action and the response. But the Doctor's hand had stopped, poised a fraction of an inch above another device looking for all intents and purposes like an inert blob of metal, maybe a paperweight. "Don't touch that, sir."

The Doctor's expressionless face confused Ianto, it seemed to Ianto that the natural reaction to such a sharp request would be surprise and perhaps question, but the lack of anything at all led Ianto to believe the man simply didn't know what he was reaching out to touch or he didn't care. Or perhaps it was something else, Ianto's subconscious tickled a warning, no, not a warning, a suggestion. A hint or motivation. But no matter the reason, Ianto felt compelled to explain himself. "That's a Class C Ylpfaxorian subatomic particle disruptor, designed as a mine. It's deactivated right now and won't arm without its key, but if you zap it with your sonic screwdriver and alter the internal components, you risk detonating it. Sir." Ianto added, almost as an afterthought. Test Ianto's subconscious was screaming at him as he watched the Doctor withdraw his hand yet never react to the information, which at the very least would have startled Ianto had he been the one receiving it.

"According to Ms. Sato," the Doctor began as he held up the clipboard containing Toshiko's preliminary notes on the device, his index finger quickly skimming over her handwriting, "the device has unknown origins and might be a weapon, might be a toaster."

It didn't take but a moment before Ianto realized his error, a quick wave of panic flashed over him before resolute logic replaced it. He plucked the clipboard from the Doctor's hands before the other man could comment and using a pen from Tosh's desk, quickly jotted down the words "weapon" and "subatomic particle disruptor mine" in the header while he casually lied about the source of his knowledge. "I've encountered blueprints for this device in the Archives; I wasn't aware we had a functional one on the premises."

With a polite, quick smile directed at the Doctor, he replaced the clipboard and stepped away from Tosh's desk, straightening the cuffs of his suit coat as he moved out of habit and for distraction. He didn't know if it'd work on the Doctor, but Jack had always refocused on the action, rather than the previous conversation. "Can I interest you in a cup of tea, sir?" Ianto kept a watchful eye on the Doctor now, uncertain whether he could trust the man to keep his hands to himself and not destroy the Hub in the process; a task made even more difficult with the disgust and anger still raging through him no matter the comforting presence within his mind. It was difficult and awkward, and above all, Ianto hated feeling that in what should have been the comfort of the Hub's sanctuary.

"You are a curious one, Mr. Jones." Ianto watched as the Doctor slipped the glasses from his face and into his pocket, an action Ianto believed had more importance than the innocent gesture purported. "Martha phoned me, left a message saying you had suffered an acute attack of a suspicious nature affecting your perception and awareness of reality. She was in a bit of a panic -- I might even go so far as to say she likes you, and if you have her respect then you have mine. Brave girl, saved you lot more than once, and she wondered if I knew anything that might have caused it or could treat it. I must admit, I've never heard of such a thing, not caused by an external source nor a psychological one so quickly reversed."

'Well, that was a kind way of saying I was hallucinating,' Ianto thought, though the smile he reserved for the most testing Information Center visitors never fell. He faintly remembered Tosh saying something about Martha phoning a friend for assistance while he had been at Providence, but for some reason he had never linked the friend to the Doctor. A misjudgment and failure on his part. "I can assure you, sir, that time of crisis has long since passed." He tried to calculate how much time had passed since Martha had phoned the Doctor, but could only be vague as time had lost much of its meaning within those walls. "Nearly two months have passed since she phoned, I'm afraid your presence is a bit ... " Unnecessary? Unwanted? Get the hell off my planet and never come back? None of the phrases were polite to say the least, and he had been raised far better than that. "... ill-timed."

To Ianto's annoyance, the Doctor just grinned broadly. "You really don't like me, do you Mr. Jones?" he repeated, and Ianto had nothing more to say than he had the first time the Doctor had spoken those words. So for sake of the (unwanted) guest in the Hub and for Jack, he remained silent. His silence seemed to do little to reduce the Doctor's unending exuberance however. "Well, then. Let's get to the TARDIS then, shall we? Martha will be asking for the results of a scan and I have no inclination to lie to Ms Jones. Jones. You two aren't related, are you? Oh, that'd be brilliant, can't think why I didn't ask before."

"No, we're not related," Ianto replied almost offhandedly as his mind whirled around what the Doctor had said, and more importantly, how to evade the matter entirely. Not that he lacked confidence with his own body to reveal any trace of alien -- every single test run by Owen (and Martha) to the extent of using alien scanning technology simply proved him human with nothing to the contrary. But ... Ianto knew that whatever the Doctor possessed would most likely not be in the same league of technology that Owen's was. In fact, the thought of the tech the Doctor might possess was downright chilling.

He'd be lucky if he didn't pass out as he had at Lester's from the overwhelming onslaught of new technology and all its uses given he'd be stepping into a bloody spacecraft..

Smiling, Ianto adopted the same tone he used when he was informing Jack of the day's schedule as he casually clutched his hands behind his back. For all he knew from Torchwood One, the Doctor could not see through solid matter and so his white knuckles would be hidden and he would have an outlet for any tension that might cause his voice to shake. Disturbing, how a year of hiding Lisa had taught him so much. "I thank you for the offer, sir, but a scan is unnecessary and I would hate to be a frivolous burden on your time."

"Nonsense, I insist!" The Doctor nearly bounced with excitement, a trend Ianto found both tiresome and engaging. To possess such a seemingly unending core of energy would make a fortune if bottled and sold on the market, and for a fleeting moment, Ianto wondered if the Doctor wasn't perhaps on some form of strong alien amphetamine. "Besides," the Doctor said as he spun, taking in the overhead flight of Myfanwy with a barely suppressed 'ooh!', "if I know Jack, he'll be reassured and less of a mother hen if I run some scans and settle any lingering questions." He stopped the spin precisely where he had started it, Ianto noted, hands stuffed in his trouser pockets, displacing his overcoat in such a Jack fashion he had to wonder who was imitating who. But that question quickly evaporated as the Doctor's face grew far more serious than Ianto had seen since their 'guest' had arrived. "Why do you think Jack agreed to leave you alone with me?"

Ianto opened his mouth to respond and, to his shame, found he had no response to give. He quickly pressed his lips together and hoped the Doctor hadn't noticed. Logic leaned towards acceptance of the Doctor's question; Jack's actions were irrational at best, given the scene just minutes ago with Ianto armed and threatening the very same Doctor he had been left with. It was ridiculous to feel betrayed as he'd been guilty of lying to Jack for some time now. If Jack believed the Doctor would give him answers and it suspended the suspicion and the monitoring ... it could explain Jack's actions immediately before he left. The intense stare, nothing spoken just Jack trying to imprint ... something ... on Ianto before the team left. Ianto had set that aside within his mind to figure out at a less challenging time but perhaps .. fuck. He had no idea what the hell Jack had meant as nothing in the course of the past hour had been logical.

Applying logic didn't stop him from feeling the betrayal, deserved or not.

It also didn't stop the anger directed at the Doctor for using such dirty tactics to get Ianto to submit to the tests, a submission that seemed purely sought to satisfy the Doctor's curiosity.

Or maybe it was simply fear on his part that was fueling the stubborn refusal.

The Doctor's expression never changed, though Ianto was certain his eyes missed nothing of his inner debate, pitifully thin as it might have been. And for the moment, Ianto hated the man for more than the deaths and destruction that filled his mind. "Jack agreed because he believed I would not kill you in his absence," Ianto countered, feeling somewhat justified with the argument, and he knew it fully accurate, even if it failed to address the true question. But he ceded to the Doctor's point that perhaps with the Doctor's tests, maybe the cameras would be removed from his home at the very least. Not that he'd admit it. "Martha requested the scans?"

The Doctor lost his serious expression as quickly as he had adopted it, the resulting shift in tenor hard for Ianto to follow. "Still have the voice mail if you want to verify."

With a slight head shake, Ianto signaled that verification wouldn't be necessary; he didn't see a choice that wouldn't be akin to a neon blinking light screaming his deceit. He just hoped that whatever the tests revealed, that there would be no indication of anything 'wrong' with him, from an alien point or anything remotely connected to his mother's illness.

Both left far too many consequences and questions that Ianto wasn't prepared to deal with.

And while he trusted Jack, Ianto most certainly didn't trust this destroyer of worlds standing before him, no matter the crises he might have averted.

Resigned and mentally preparing himself for whatever he might see inside, Ianto followed the eager man to the doors of the blue police box.

***

The Doctor opened the door with a flourish; presumably he took great pride in showing off the TARDIS. Ianto's thoughts regarding the Doctor took a secondary track, however, just flitting alongside awareness, as the calming pressure within his mind turned ... well, excited was the best he could describe it. As much as it was repressing his physical response to the Doctor, Ianto could feel his own nerves coil in knotted anticipation, mirroring the stranger within his mind, while beneath his suit, goosepimples prickled his skin.

Consciously drawing a deep breath, Ianto pressed his palm flat against the blue door.

It was just like the growing one in Jack's office, she was just like the one in Jack's office, only ... more. Ianto stared at his hand until pale skin and veins blurred, no longer seeing but listening as she sang a welcome. It was a beautiful melody reverberating deep within Ianto's bones, haunting and exhilarating as her anthem flew, twisted and dove in pitches and tones he instinctively knew had no earthly origin and no apparent measure of time. Wrapping about him like water from the tropics, baked in the equatorial sun, Ianto felt completely immersed in the song, not that he'd stop it if he could. He couldn't recall the fear, much less revulsion, he'd experienced earlier. In fact, Ianto couldn't remember anything at all as within the melody he vanished, a mere fragment of thought drifting with the melody.

Beautiful.

But it was so much more; even his thoughts couldn't describe the scope of what he was hearing to himself and he certainly wouldn't ever be able to explain it if asked. The music lived. No, Ianto corrected himself, the music simply existed, as it always had when the stars began and as it would when they dimmed.

She had a voice, whereas the one -- immature? young? -- in Jack's office lacked the personality, lacked the spirit though, Ianto could still see the possibilities in comparison. This TARDIS ... she was old, maybe ancient, though whether her age came from a time in the future or the past, Ianto couldn't tell. But he had to smile as the tone shifted to almost ... one of mischief. Playful, perhaps.

"Ianto?"

Consciously blinking as sound disturbed the focus of his mind, Ianto forced himself to shift his attention from the TARDIS to the speaker who wasn't glaring but seemingly intrigued for all he was casually leaning in the blue doorway.

How long had he been standing outside the TARDIS? And more importantly, Ianto wondered just what he may have given away by not following the Doctor inside, to the extent that the Doctor was calling him by his first name?

Focus. He needed to focus before something went horribly wrong.

"Just wait till you see the inside." The Doctor was all boyish grin and if Ianto didn't know better, he'd say the Doctor was as anxious as he awaiting Ianto to set foot inside the TARDIS, but for probably vastly different reasons. He reminded Ianto of the few times he could remember his father and he buying a little trinket for his mother for Christmas. It was never anything grand, he understood now, but Ianto could remember being barely able to contain himself in anticipation of his mother's face when she opened the gift. Her expression had meant everything, did even when she was too confused or lost within herself to fathom why the gift, much less who the giver was. But Ianto had always waited, excited and anxious, seeking approval he supposed.

Kind of made him wonder about what sort of approval the Doctor sought, if the expressions were analogous.

With a sharp nod that Ianto hoped revealed nothing of his thoughts or his wonder at the TARDIS, he stepped closer to the door before waiting for the Doctor to precede him. It was his ship to show off, after all.

Ianto wasn't disappointed in the least.

He'd known, somehow -- maybe he'd read it in a file at Torchwood One -- that the TARDIS had interior dimensions unrelated to the apparent physical shape of the exterior. She was impressive all the same, seemed to almost be preening as he took in the .. bridge? Just one step across the threshold had led Ianto into a place so unlike any he'd seen and he resisted every urge to step back outside and review the dimensions of the police box to reaffirm what he was seeing. He understood the concept to a limited extent, and so while his eyes scanned over every surface and took in everything from the scattered technology (some foreign even to the scrolling data within his mind) to the graceful architecture of the TARDIS, Ianto kept himself still, hands clasped behind his back, absorbing everything he saw to define and understand (and perhaps question) later.

She was grand, he had to give her that. And his acknowledgment seemed to amuse the quiet song still humming in his mind.

The Doctor waited for him just beyond the central column, in the doorway of what appeared to be a hallway leading deeper into the TARDIS and what Ianto assumed were various rooms, one of which would be the medical facilities. Waited and ... awaited, it appeared. For what, Ianto had no clue, but knowing the erratic nature demonstrated thus far by the Doctor it could be anything from a declaration of love to an admiration for the color scheme, though Ianto was fairly certain that was more the TARDIS' selection than the Doctor's.

Ridiculous. He was standing in a TARDIS and he was contemplating the decor.

"Bigger on the inside." The Doctor's voice, ringing with pride, failed to echo despite the deceptive open framework, Ianto noted, an intriguing property that defied most physical assumptions. Something to do with the coral-like structure, like the baby TARDIS on Jack's desk? Or, as the TARDIS grew, did they shed skins or metamorphose like a butterfly, changing states from one to the next through a transformative period?

Rather like his own situation, Ianto quietly chided himself. He adopted his placating smile, the one he used as Jack would go on telling stories he had already told Ianto, knowing full-well that Jack's purpose in telling the stories were often more for his benefit than Ianto's. Seemed the repetition helped banish whatever ghosts haunted him. "Of course," Ianto replied with some amusement; maybe he should have shown a little awe and wonder as he'd stepped inside? But he'd already heard the TARDIS standing right outside the door; he didn't think that there would be much more that would truly strike him with awe after experiencing her on that level. Then again, that wasn't the 'normal' response to the TARDIS, if the Doctor's reactions were anything to go by. Fuck it all, he was horrible at the normal stuff around alien tech and beings. "I hardly believed two could stand comfortably within a police box, much less two who had previously threatened violence upon the other person."

Ianto swore he heard laughter within his mind, but that was simply not possible.

Except when it was.

He understood that the TARDIS was helping him, softening his physical response to the Doctor's presence and all the destruction by his hands. He simply could not comprehend why.

Ianto did find himself entertained by the thought of making the Doctor peevish, however, if his crestfallen appearance was any indication. If Ianto couldn't kill him, arrest him, banish him, lock him up or any of the various things he instinctively wished to do, he could at the very least irritate the man who was using him to satisfy a personal curiosity.

And then maybe he would leave before any danger followed. Ianto found himself preferring that option more and more as time progressed; maybe the Doctor would leave before the Earth was threatened. "Do you have medical facilities, sir?" Ianto asked before the Doctor could say anything; the quicker they moved on, the quicker they would be done with this nonsense. "Or do you have the devices in this area?"

"You surprise me, Mr. Jones." The Doctor was definitely disappointed, Ianto noted with some sense of satisfaction, no matter how childish. With a wave and no hesitation or waiting to see if Ianto would follow, he turned down the hall, chattering as he went. "This way, then. At least I think it's this way, the TARDIS might have moved the room since last it was used. Not much need of it myself, but it is useful..."

The Doctor continued his monologue of empty anecdotes as they walked; Ianto mostly tuned them out for filler as they took one hall and then another, multiple doors opened and shut before he could see what was inside, an action that he theorized was more to pique intrigue rather than anything secretive hidden inside. Or perhaps not, but he did believe the Doctor devious enough to try.

"Ah! Here we are."

Ianto followed the Doctor into a room which looked ... as un-medical facility as he could imagine. Not that it wasn't sterile -- he was fairly certain that not a single microbe was any where it shouldn't be in the room. It was simply ... bare. Oh, there was an exam table in the center of the room, lit by an unseen light from above. And it was far above, the ceiling stretched upwards much as the 'bridge' area had, all colored in a similar peach, which was a bit of a relief from what Ianto dreamt about white walls, four corners and a sensation of being caged; either the Battle of Canary Wharf or Providence Park as they seemed to vacillate between the two nightmare scenarios. But there was nothing else in the room, just the exam table shroud in light.

It reminded Ianto far too much of horror movies for his liking, the serial killer spotlighting his place of work, with probably a camera or two hidden near the ceiling. Not in corners, this room was rounded. And empty. Just ... empty. What kind of medical facility was this?

"This really is unnecessary," Ianto said, doing his best to keep any anxiety out of his voice. Was the Doctor even really a doctor? This was absurd; he was willingly submitting to some kind of exam by the same man who fled while Torchwood One still burned and whose list of grievous accomplishments began anew every time Ianto looked at him. .

"Bah! Nonsense. Hop up on the table." The Doctor whirled around from the wall near the door, what appeared to be a tablet computer in his hand and some sort of ... pen device. Visions of alien probes from science fiction movies replayed in quick fashion, something Ianto sincerely hoped were not part of the planned exam and something he would most certainly protest. It was ridiculous, really, panicking over what appeared to be an innocuous device. He nearly laughed at himself until he remembered the control he so valued and what could be perceived from unexplained laughter.

He didn't really think the Doctor would understand the joke .

With as much composure as he could manage, Ianto pushed himself up on to the table as he would sitting on a kitchen counter. Reassurance filled his mind, though whether it was his doing or the TARDIS' Ianto couldn't be sure, but he never stopped assuring himself that the tests would show he was human, just as the tests Owen and Martha ran proved that he was human. There was nothing to worry about, no need for panic. He'd sit through these tests and be done with the Doctor.

"Raise your right hand."

The Doctor peered over his glasses, waiting for Ianto to comply with the request, and despite how little it made sense, Ianto raised his right hand. A trickle of thought crept into his mind, nothing that Ianto would allow to solidify into much more than just a notion, but for a fleeting moment as he did as the Doctor asked and next raised his left hand, Ianto considered adding Lisa to the Doctor's list of deaths.

It was wrong and untrue, but for just a fraction of a second, he rejoiced in the idea of having someone to blame, for allaying his guilt and placing it on the Doctor. Just one more name to the incredible list of charges, a list of thousands upon thousands; one name wouldn't matter as much as the feeling of relief and direction would to Ianto.

The taste of temptation while he inhaled at the Doctor's request was sweet.

But on the demand for an exhale, Ianto knew he wouldn't do it. Not for the Doctor's sake, but his own.

"Right. That's not going to work. Can you loosen your tie?" Blinking at the Doctor's question, Ianto tried to understand what the hell his tie had to do with any sort of testing the Doctor might be running with the tablet and pen thing. The pen hovered in the vicinity of his neck while the Doctor waited for him to comply, something Ianto wasn't exactly inclined to do as he simply didn't trust the other man. It was a tie, just fabric. Not like the scanning device didn't have to go through layers of tissue. "And unbutton the first two buttons on your shirt. It's interfering with the scan."

Jack was the only person whom Ianto couldn't always discern was lying, though most times his instincts were fairly accurate. He reluctantly added the Doctor to the limited list as he waited impatiently for Ianto to do as requested. Ianto waited just a moment longer to see if the Doctor so much as twitched, but when that failed, he gave up and tugged at his tie (dark cranberry, his 'Tuesday' or 'Calm the Visiting UNIT Representative' tie, whichever name was applicable for the day) and unbuttoned the first two buttons of his shirt to allow the Doctor access for ... whatever scans still needed to be done.

"Excellent. You have remarkable finger dexterity, Mr. Jones."

Ianto quickly stifled the inelegant snort of either disbelief or amusement -- he wasn't quite sure which emotion fueled the reaction. But Jack had once said something similar, although the scenario in which those words were spoken was vastly different.

"Now, stand on your left foot and hop once."

His eyes narrowed on the Doctor as the man side-stepped away from the exam table, almost as though he was expecting a reaction like the instinctual foot-to-the-groin that flashed across Ianto's mind. Maybe he would reconsider adding Lisa's name to the Doctor's list of crimes against Universal Law. But he had more self-control than what the Doctor expected of him and simply curled his fingers around the edge of exam table in a grip that would surely dent the warm metal. "I can't imagine any possible medical reason for such a demonstration."

Whatever expression he held, Ianto believed it just served to entertain the Doctor, whose grin stretched from ear-to-ear as he began tapping the pen on the tablet. "Of course not. Scans started once you walked into the room. Just wanted to see if I could get you to loosen your tie."

Furious did little to describe his ire as Ianto stiffly re-buttoned his shirt and cinched the tie back into place, an action which took him twice as long as necessary due to the thousand curses in various languages scrolling rapidly though his mind, all the things he wished to say about the Doctor's personhood, his ancestors, and quite possibly even extending to the Doctor's (neutered) sexual performance.

He said nothing, however, reining himself in with the practiced control of both caring for his mother and dealing with those who wished to mock. Those skills had served him as well at both Torchwoods as they did now.

His temper had always been his control, though that had been increasingly frayed of late.

"Hmm." The Doctor's scowl and the rapid increase in the staccato-tapping of what Ianto now believed to be a stylus on the tablet computer were worth his silence and control. Finally, the Doctor looked up with an expression of such perplexity that Ianto filed the memory away for further amusement when perhaps the coffee roast he preferred was out of stock. Or when Myfanwy ate something that disagreed with her digestive system. Or for no significant reason at all, just amusement's sake. "You're human."

Ianto fought to keep the victorious smirk from his face, the one he used often in the presence of Owen. Now that this nonsense was over, perhaps the Doctor would leave, everyone would be satisfied with the results and the monitoring would cease. A lot of maybes, Ianto knew, but the team would hardly have an excuse to maintain the surveillance if it came from a 'reputable' (at least, unquestionable) source that Ianto was human, healthy and nothing was to be feared. "You seem surprised," was the most diplomatic thing Ianto could think to say.

"No. Well, yes." The tablet was flipped upside down, and Ianto wasn't exactly sure how that was going to change the results of the diagnostics, but he kept his mouth shut as the Doctor tapped the stylus against his lips while he, for all appearances, thought. "DNA indicates 21st century human, born in the 20th. And perfectly healthy. No chromosomal abnormalities...no mutations in the mitochondria..." The Doctor frowned again and righted the computer in his hands -- though for all Ianto knew he could be reading it sideways or upside down -- and angled it to achieve better lighting. "No indication of neural decay, now that's unnatural for an ape of your age and era..."

Perhaps his desire to appear human had some kinks to be worked out. "If you've nothing further and as your results say I'm healthy, might we return to the Hub? I've some filing I'd like to complete before end of day."

"Doesn't explain your ... " The Doctor's voice trailed off as he stared at the data in his hands, apparently trying as hard as he may to derive answers from the apparent lack of anything abnormal. Ianto didn't really care how long he stared at the results, so long as he left immediately upon Ianto's exit from his ship. "Though, I don't suppose ... no, no abnormal activity ... " He continued to mutter various half-sentences and possibilities, but each time Ianto cheered just a little when he cut himself off, discontinuing the line of thought when the scan results disproved it. Eventually the mutterings stopped, and the Doctor glanced up with a smile that Ianto had to question the sincerity of. "Well, Mr. Jones, I guess congratulations for your good health are in order."

Before Ianto could decide whether a 'thank you' or an 'I told you so' was preferable under these circumstances, a whirling, grinding sound flooded the room, echoing off the high ceiling. Or perhaps it was more an internalized echo for all it bounced off Ianto's nerves, winding them to an anxious pitch until Ianto swore the floor even vibrated.

Or maybe it was.

From the Doctor's expression, he wasn't alone in his confusion.

"What?"

Ianto scowled as his voice and the Doctor's posed the same question, but any hope for an answer was was cut off (and ignored) as the Doctor turned and sprinted out the door. Quickly following suit, as he had no intention on getting lost in the maze of corridors they took to arrive at the medical room, Ianto ran after, trailing the Doctor and mimicking almost every lurch and collision with a wall as the TARDIS' physical stability was seriously brought into doubt.

No fear -- not yet at any rate. But Ianto counted for the second time that day the tempo of his racing heart in response to the unexplained. He'd collapse for certain by the end of the day, dead to the world as exhaustion claimed him.

The distance they ran was much shorter than their initial travel through the hall -- or maybe Ianto was descending into a bit of a panic despite his self-assurance to the contrary -- and he stumbled onto the bridge as the TARDIS shifted again, the patterned whirring sound matching the tempo of the plunging central column, and if not for the frantic pace of his mind he would have laughed as an imaginary Jack made a lewd comment regarding the TARDIS and space/time ...

Of course, Jack wasn't with them on the TARDIS, nor did Ianto have any idea what he should be doing as the Doctor jumped from station to station, pushing buttons and pulling levers all while interjecting a few choice phrases which may not have been foul language, but were curses all the same.

He wasn't panicking. He wasn't.

And maybe if he kept lying to himself, he could pretend he didn't have a clue what was going on and that they weren't traveling from one point in space to another, without the Doctor's apparent permission or involvement, and most importantly, without his.

He was with the Doctor. He was traveling with the Doctor. The man who had wrecked so much destruction upon the known universe and he was trapped in a bloody police box with the man.

Ianto grabbed a railing and clung to it as he seriously considered whether motion sickness tabs for interstellar travel were a marketable item. Depended on the constitution of the consumer, he supposed, and the general affordability of space travel combined with the frequency that one flew. Flew? Was the verb "flew" appropriate in space as one was technically moving through a vacuum, not air, and so aerodynamic physics held no meaning on either the shape of the object traveling or the manner in which one traveled.

Fuck, he couldn't breathe. What if none of the air that was in the Hub traveled with them? Was the TARDIS air-tight? Did it need to be?

Ianto gave up on the flimsy premise of pretending he wasn't scared out of his mind and rejected all attempts to calm his thoughts by the TARDIS.

Well, shit. Jack was going to be displeased when he got back and had to clean out the SUV by himself.

***

Minutes ... hours ... fuck if Ianto could tell how much time passed. All he knew was that if he wasn't grabbing onto the railing, his hands would most likely be visibly trembling. But at least the violent slides of the TARDIS had subsided, as had the rhythmic grinding sounds. In fact, if Ianto were to be asked he would say they had arrived at whatever their intended destination and were parked.

It was peaceful, the absence of chaos.

He was the only one enjoying it, however. Ianto watched as the Doctor dashed for the console on the far side of the central column, typing furiously into the keyboard while he talked to himself.

Curious bad habit, talking to one's self. He'd point out that it could be a sign of mental instability but Ianto didn't think the Doctor would appreciate the comment right now.

While the Doctor was distracted, Ianto edged closer to the door; if they had landed elsewhere on Earth, he could at least escape and catch a flight home. That idea was preferable to spending any more than the required time with the Doctor for medical purposes, time which had run out the moment his scans had turned up clear and the TARDIS had moved. If they were elsewhere in the galaxy, well, Ianto was willing to believe that his chances for survival and eventual return to Jack increased exponentially the further he was from the Doctor.

Though the same could be said about lifespans and Torchwood, but Ianto refused to allow that thought to cross his mind.

"No, no, no, that's impossi-" The Doctor put a finger to his chin, tapping it three times before he spun on his heels and faced Ianto directly; terribly unnerving as Ianto had been attempting to be discreet as he moved. He removed the glasses while he talked, taking care to fold them gently before tucking them into his pocket. "But nothing's impossible, is it, Mr. Jones? Is that even your name? I prefer John Smith myself, but that's just a derivative, isn't it?"

"Wh-what?" Ianto couldn't stop the stammer as he drew his hands away from the railing, instinctively taking a step away from the Doctor. It wasn't that he was afraid of the Doctor, or maybe he was. He knew what the man could do and he was trapped on his bloody ship with him. But what he was more afraid of what the Doctor appeared to know, or at least what he assumed to know. The computer he had been looking at told him something. "My name is Ianto Jones, it always has been."

"I don't believe you." The Doctor actually took a step forward ('stalking his prey' was more apt a description, he could even see the tiger ready to pounce) before stopping a body length away from where Ianto stood, arms crossed and looking deceptively calm. It was his eyes that belied any moderate intent -- Ianto saw fury of a thousand ages but he didn't know why. Tickling at the edges of his mind, he could feel the TARDIS attempting to, what, apologize? Soothing, like she was attempting to calm a cornered beast. Well, that's sure as hell what Ianto felt like, and he hoped she was trying to do the same thing to the one cornering him. "I know what you are. Where is your H'd-toba? Did you leave them behind as well when you abandoned your kind?"

Running the name over the various languages he had a loose understanding of, Ianto came up empty for anything resembling a translation. Given that it was most likely an alien name (one that his mind helpfully supplied a definition in equally garbled tongue), Ianto wasn't surprised that nothing on Earth resembled the name.

But that didn't disturb him so much as what the Doctor was implying. While he may not be as brave as Jack (or any of the team, for that matter), he was no coward. And he would never, ever abandon his team. Or family. Of that he was certain.

Resolve drowned out any fear he had in those few moments with the Doctor -- a terror he half blamed on their little sojourn to wherever they had landed -- and he built a shield of defiance around himself. He would die before abandoning his team; he would rather risk his life and freedom to save his girlfriend as Torchwood London fell than flee at the first given opportunity, instead of seeing the consequences of actions.

The Doctor may not have been responsible for Yvonne Hartmann's decisions to encourage and study the ghost shifts, but he sure as hell showed no courage in helping the innocent who still lived after the fall.

A man should not throw stones when he himself is made of glass.

Facing the Doctor was never an easier task, his back straight as he would have worn to any Torchwood One meeting, or on occasion he was required to attend a meeting with Jack in the presence of Her Majesty (he'd worn his most expensive tailored suit that day; Jack had shown no regard for the finery when he later threw the jacket on the floor). Not that he was no longer on the Doctor's 'turf' as it were, but he was no longer cowed. "I don't know what H'd-toba means, but my name is Ianto Jones and I have never abandoned a soul I did not first try to save."

"You don't know ... " Ianto swore he could see the gears visibly spinning in the Doctor's head as confusion ate away at the livid expression until all that remained was, what, frustration? Pity? No, maybe empathy; the man had no answers but understood that he didn't understand. Or maybe he did, and Ianto was the one in confusion. But he couldn't be that far wrong about himself. He knew little of his alien origins, he knew even less about where they came from, how they lived or how the Doctor might know them, but he knew who Ianto Jones was.

What the Doctor believed of him held no importance as Ianto knew full-well who the Time Lord was.

Ianto took advantage of the Doctor's softening, thoughtful expression and felt for the handle on the door. It wasn't too great a stretch, and beyond, well, he didn't know what lands lay beyond, but he knew he wouldn't be forced to share such close quarters with the man who claimed he knew who and what Ianto was.

It wasn't a trick of any sorts to turn the handle, it was even less of a challenge to turn on his heel as he pulled open the door.

It was, however, a great feat to ignore the Doctor's shouted, "Ianto, don't!", a voice which brokered no argument, but Ianto disagreed anyway.

Lifting his eyes to the outside world, Ianto stared into darkness lit by thousands upon thousands of stars, stars and splattered galaxies spinning across a far sky, stars and the sheer absence of light filling pockets of space where nothing breathed and everything died, stars and the quiet shades of planets darkening their brilliance by their passing, revolution upon revolution marking a passage of time on a small scale in comparison to the stretching spans of millennia tracing the paths of lives once lived.

And just outside the TARDIS' door, lazily spinning, were thousands- no, millions of rocks. Asteroids. Dancing a massive spatial dance with inertia leading while everyone else followed, spinning and twirling, occasionally bumping but never still in the relatively slow-moving skirt decorating the legs of a brilliant yellow star.

Thousands, no, millions of rocks in a swath of destruction, the rippling wake of a catastrophe Ianto couldn't explain but felt so viscerally he knew the name without ever having to see its face ...

Halcyon.

***

Halcyon.

Ianto froze. Not that he actually felt the cessation of movement, nor did the conscious decision to stop register in his thoughts. He was aware, but only in the sense that what he saw became all that he knew for the eternity it took to crawl across his optic nerves, into his brain, and be processed as vision, not memory.

But it wasn't vision, it was memory.

No, it couldn't be. Wasn't possible.

Except when it was.

He blinked, once. At least he thought that's all he blinked, though it felt slow as the maple syrup spilling from a chilled, broken jar. Ianto just watched as she mistakenly put the jar in the fridge, second shelf with the marmalade and lemon juice, only days after his father died. He watched his mother as she did it, cause it'd be funny to see her face when she tried to pour it. And he was angry, but he'd never tell his mother that. Angry that his father wasn't coming home. Angry at the stupid driver of the other car. Angry with the cops who'd come to the door and made his mother cry. Except when she did try to pour it she screamed and threw the jar. Hit the window frame, broken jar fragments dripping maple syrup on the kitschy gold-leafed angel wings. He cleaned it up, that day and the next and every day after, but he still saw cold maple syrup, curling slowly over the jagged edges, spilling maple syrup from a chilled jar.

Ianto didn't remember opening his eyes, but he must have as he scanned the horizon, the skies stained a glorious purple-green as Zhar-Ptitsa set for her nightly slumber. He turned towards the south, the lingering rays stretching fingers for the heavens, pulling a blanket of stars and darkness behind her as she lay for sleep behind the spires of S'l-Isonae.

The waning light glinted off the towers and archways, surrounding their city in a glowing halo framed by the purple-green sky. "Beautiful," he whispered quietly while he rooted the memory within his mind; a sight never to be forgotten no matter fate nor time.

Only right that some beauty exist today.

They were coming.

Alarms had sounded during the Midday Passing and preparations for the final engagement had begun immediately. Those scattered across space and time were heralded and abandoned their missions with little doubt as to the purpose of their return. All were needed for the battle; even those who had chosen lifestyles free of orders and rules or those who had forgotten their duties.

Everyone, even the young Initiates, for they could not lose this fight. The alternate horrors were too heinous to consider viable, no matter what others believed. Passivity would not emerge victorious against their enemy, and there were some among their ranks who believed even with the full ranks of the Coteries they would not succeed

Darkness appeared to flutter as all gathered on the West Plains, forces flying in from the far corners of Halcyon to unite as one weapon against them. The L'ranore Veil was thinnest here, demarcation just a whisper of a thought from existence beyond. They would make their stand here, where they would be strongest.

Gather they did.

Upon the fields they stood, wing to wing, proud and noble in their defense and for once, the individual Coteries were lost within the whole. Black next to brown, white wing touching blue until the grounds were an artist's palate dropped and splattered, mixing and blending until even the Crests became mere lines scribbled upon the surface. From his vantage he could see so many of the beautiful species within the Universe represented, so broad was the Windhover touch.

So hard they had tried to bring peace and justice.

How great they might fall.

He felt his H'd-toba's presence before he saw her, alighting quietly beside him in a trick he'd never learned despite an entire existence together. His Brakiaan tail always hit the ground first, no matter how he flew, something that amused her terribly despite her attempts to teach him how she did it.

They were not laughing now, the H'd-tobi pair, and neither were the thousands of others as in unison they looked to the starry heavens. A vessel approached Halcyon; their enemy. Not any enemy but a threat to the integrity of all space and time. Perhaps not yet a visible danger, but soon. Soon but too late for the Windhover lost, vanished with no warning or clue as to their disappearance except that they simply ceased to be. Some Coteries had been devastated; his had been lucky, so far. But the Brakiaan's were not a lot destined for the stars, much preferring the humid tropics of their home-world to space travel so perhaps little attention had been focused on the tiny system in search of his Coterie.

Made no difference now, all of the Coterie from all the different worlds throughout all of time were no longer separate but joined together at the L'ranore Veil which already crackled with the pull of the existence beyond. Together they would ensnare the approaching vessel, sentence all within by rule of Law and banish the threat from this Universe until such time as they could be released again in peace.

They waited, patiently.

His H'd-toba grabbed his hand for balance as the Veil stretched further, a jade-sliver of jagged light opening wide from the ground to the stars as the crimes of the enemy were read. Codes of the Shadow Proclamation broken, Galactic Law ignored and willfully violated. The millions aboard this vessel were not all guilty of all charges, but they could not risk individual sentencing for due crimes.

A bright orange light appeared in the sky; not the vessel itself or meteor, but rather something terrifying and unexpected as it crackled in countertune to the L'ranore Veil, canceling its existence with a scream in mirrored waves to their own.

They had not prepared for this.

***

"No!"

Ianto recoiled, limbs collapsing towards his body like a marionette with all the strings violently pulled as his mind screamed the word over and over. Or maybe it wasn't his mind; vibration patterns on his legs indicated he might just be saying the words aloud. Not that he cared; words spoken in an barren forest had no more meaning than the one speaking them who applied the context to the sounds. Maybe. Or maybe it was his heart, jackhammering against his ribcage. Soon it'd break free, race off to curl fetal and weep until sorrow consumed all that was left while he'd jealously stare after it, watching it twist and shrivel into a mass of nothing; a dark bleak nothing which had no end or beginning but simply existed within the span of history. Tensing his arms while ignoring their quaking, Ianto squeezed his knees closer to his chest, forehead boring into knees just to contain his heart if it did escape.

Didn't help. Maybe it did. Could it?

He deliberately didn't think, deliberately didn't move, deliberately did nothing at all. Or maybe he did, he couldn't tell. Couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't move, couldn't feel; disconnected and dropped free-fall. Or maybe not. Fingers curled around his legs, his fingers, clenched so tight they might snap but they were holding him together before he could completely unravel. He'd a sweater once, snagged on a nail and tore a thread. Zip, right down from the collar until a ladder remained, horizontal bars missing their binding weave. He felt bare like that, an empty ladder with nowhere to climb; if he'd reach the top he'd just reach for more rungs climbing down, an endless loop where he moved but gained no ground until he no longer even remembered the point from which he'd began. Did that mean he hadn't moved at all?

He had. Moved. Only he hadn't. Didn't remember it. But there were seven hundred threads per square inch telling his lips emphatically that he had. Lips still moving, still repeating the word over and over, crossing great distance while never straying from the single dampening spot against his legs. Seven hundred threads.

Ianto stopped. Only his body kept moving, a useless waste of energy as the action was not efficient nor was it productive as his shoulders shook - movement - but achieved no distance to separate him from where he sat and where he could be. Not shaking, convulsing. Unconscious action driven by grief he couldn't understand and yet felt so innately it was more than just him, it was everything he ever would be. Or maybe it was not him at all, but an existence all its own, claiming his body as a path for its expression.

Maybe.

Something shared it with him, sang a song of sorrow as it wove in and out of his core until it laced up the unraveled ladder, his endless climb to nowhere halted when the rungs vanished beneath his hands and feet. Cradled, like an infant. Maybe he was, and everything he remembered was just a dream. No life, no Lisa, no Torchwood, no Jack.

Jack.

Bough broke at the name, cracked with a snap, but didn't fall. Not a dream, dreams didn't fracture with a name. At least he didn't think they did. Would. Maybe? Or not, as the song would have it, pushing the discord behind her as the melody continued along space and time, while neither had meaning they meant everything, which made little sense to Ianto as he followed. Flowed. Smooth as seven hundred threads per square inch on a bed that never moved.

Only when it did, to which it was everywhere and nowhere all at once.

Bed. He was on a bed, head pressed to his knees while his shoulders shook with the sobs now quieting as the pain of the memory drifted back into nothing. That's what it had been: memory. Only it hadn't. Real? Couldn't have been real; memories were real only to those who gave the memory context, and he had no context for those memories, just an empty forest.

But she hymned that it was real. Note upon note of sorrow and grief blending with solitude until the song was no longer music but her life. The TARDIS. She joined him, or maybe he joined her; Ianto couldn't quite tell. Definitely a bed; it was soft beneath his arse. And seven hundred threads pressed a fine pattern into his forehead, so tightly woven it'd show up as one instead of hundreds. But he knew all were there, every weft and every warp.

Tea. He smelled tea.

He wanted to move, to look for the source of the smell, but found he couldn't, passive thought insubstantial to command when subconsciously he wished to remain curled fetal, twisting and withering away as sorrow consumed all that was left. He'd stopped, frozen, save for the involuntary shaking he swore no control over. Or maybe he did.

Ianto focused, deliberately thought, deliberately commanded, deliberately forced himself to move. To breathe. To calm the shakes, which muted into shivers and while still involuntary at least he had more control. She helped, or at least she tried. He could feel her wanting to help, which amused him slightly in that she was the cause. Source? No, just the cause, the source was something else, something different and yet the same.

Maybe. Or maybe cause and source were not so much the same as it was a necessity.

Inevitability?

Prescribed.

Concentrating, Ianto forced his fingers to relax, their grip on his legs slacking until he no longer believed their combined strength would shred his skin despite the sheets. Seven hundred threads per square inch; fine bedding he could appreciate. Shivers still chased up and down his spine but he felt like he could move, and he did, at least he thought he did. Maybe. Or maybe he didn't and only his perspective of the room changed, entirely possible but he wouldn't know until he opened his eyes.

Ianto discovered he was slightly surprised that his eyes were closed. He hadn't shut them, had he? He remembered blinking and cold syrup ...

With a drawn breath that shivered in tempo with his body, Ianto ordered his eyes open, commanding all the fine muscles in the lids to contract despite the overwhelming desire to remain hidden within the darkness, tucked away from all things within the cocoon of his mind. Only he hadn't been secure, had he? The pain still lingered, tainting the hallows with a sorrow the TARDIS shared.

"So you've come back to us, Mr. Jones." Ianto recognized the voice, and slowly he focused on the blurred figure in front of him. No, to the side, on his right. Seated? Ianto could almost feel his brain processing what his eyes were seeing, knowing precisely the moment when identity was provided. The Doctor. If he weren't already numb, Ianto was fairly certain he would have flinched at the recall. "Wasn't so sure we wouldn't lose you to then. I really was not looking forward to explaining that to Jack."

He had no idea what the Doctor was talking about, but he understood enough to realize the Doctor knew. "They're all dead," Ianto stated rather than asked, knowing the answer before the words ever left his lips. But he'd known that, hadn't he? Halcyon had been destroyed. Or maybe he had just hoped that with the destruction, some had survived. Maybe a few. At least enough to tell him who and what he was. He knew better now; he'd seen it. He'd felt it.

They were all dead. All of the Windhovers. He'd just witnessed their death.

Which was impossible.

Except when it wasn't.

"Yes." The Doctor's response was brief, but deep regret stretched the single word into a story so ancient Ianto wondered if it pre-dated the Doctor or if the Doctor was simply that old to remember what once had been. Not that it mattered since the answer remained unchanged.

Ianto felt the muscles in his shoulders instantly relax, like his body had simply been waiting for confirmation and now there was no cause to battle against what he'd seen. They were dead. All of them. His body melted in on itself, maybe exhausted but definitely weary, worn out and battered by things he didn't understand and his mind could only comprehend on a level so infinitesimal he knew if he gave it more thought in his current state he'd fall off the wall and shatter, with no kings or horses to put him back together. Impossible, since they were all dead.

A millennia ago or yesterday relative to now, Ianto knew it didn't matter and it was all he could do to not hide in some forgotten corner of the TARDIS and weep for days. He might have already, curled fetal in a bed, covered by seven hundred threads per square inch dampened by tears. Tears which still fell, he noted absently as another raced down his cheek, following the same path so many before it had taken. With on hand that shook far more than he liked, Ianto tried to wipe his face dry, in part embarrassed by his display and in part just to see if it'd work to stopper the grief that flowed unchecked.

Didn't work, not that Ianto had really believed it would. How could it when he could still feel that moment of awareness when they had known, all of them, that all was lost? They had lost.

And then it was gone. They were all gone.

The shock was so intense that Ianto couldn't breathe as his insides twisted, tying themselves into fast knots and compressed until they felt like just a smear inside the gaping hole left by the Windhover's absence. And it wasn't just a sensation of loss brought on through acquisition of new information, he knew it wasn't. Ianto could feel where there should have been many.

And there simply weren't. They were dead; all of them.

The bed dipping surprised Ianto. The physical sensation after focusing so intently internally was a shock and it took the extent of his control not to violently react. He felt first one hand, then the other wrap around a warm cup, not comprehending initially they were his hands and found himself curious how they were acting without his conscious direction. Then he realized they weren't, not exactly. Other fingers curled around his; it took a moment to work out that a third hand was helping him lift the cup to his lips and that he hadn't suddenly grown a third arm. Tea spilled over the lip of the cup and it took Ianto forcing himself to swallow otherwise he rather thought he might have drowned by an exotic-tasting Earl Grey .

Wouldn't that have been a story for Torchwood? Drowned by tea.

It tasted good though, he so rarely brewed it and Gwen had only tried the once before he'd taken away her tea-making privileges. He drank until the cup was lowered -- he hadn't done that, but the cup had moved -- and felt the drink's warmth unfurl its feather-light fingers throughout his body. It'd started small, a ball of heat in his gut but then it spread a swath of calm that traveled the length of him, soothing the shivers that shook his frame.

"But then, they're not all dead, are they?"

Ianto didn't even bother trying to hide his confusion as he'd seen it happen. He might not understand or even comprehend at the moment, but he saw it happen. A flash of something in the night sky and then it just ... stopped . The memory had stopped. And it'd stopped because they'd ceased to be. He knew it; he'd seen it. He'd experienced it. They were gone, all of them.

He rested his chin on his knees, head feeling rather heavy for what he knew it weighed, and angled it so he could look at the man sitting next to him that he knew he was supposed to hate. He had, earlier that day. Day? Maybe. But he had loathed him, been physically repulsed by him. And now .. Ianto knew it was still there, buried beneath far more pressing emotions, but he couldn't bring himself to feel it. Not even if he tried. Perhaps he was broken? Humpty Dumpty. Fractured into a million pieces.

"You're alive." The Doctor's voice sounded so pragmatic Ianto wondered why he hadn't considered his existence before as evidence contrary to his beliefs. They weren't all dead; he lived, and that he felt relief both sickened him and thrilled him, despite not quite understanding because he hadn't actually known them. The Doctor appeared amused, maybe concerned, but definitely intrigued while Ianto stared at him, not for any interest on his part but because it was growing increasingly difficult to think about moving, much less actually accomplishing it. "But how ... well, that'll just have to wait, won't it? I imagine you're feeling a bit tired."

A mighty powerful understatement, Ianto thought as the Doctor's face blurred, whites and browns splashing the walls by the hands of an Impressionist. His entire body felt weak, woozy with exhaustion that crept into even his hair, which felt limp and plastered to his head. Maybe it was, he wasn't quite sure. But as that thought flitted across his mind, another poured like spilt tea and his eyes narrowed despite the struggle to keep the lids apart.

The bastard had drugged him.

He wanted to yell, he wanted to curse the man, he wanted to fear for himself and his personal safety but all he could do is move his hand, raising a finger while the Doctor's chuckle bounced off the wavering walls which seemed to be pouring over the floor. At least he was sitting on a bed, wrapped in seven hundred thread count sheets which should keep him from the melting walls.

Ianto felt his eyes close with the weight of twin elephants even as his body moved not of his command, pressure growing and disappearing as he recognized he was being unfolded from his protective curl and settled back on the bed.

He'd have to remember to check to make sure his heart was still there when he woke.

***

Ianto woke lazily, the fleeting tendrils of dream tickling consciousness and teasing it with possibility of the impossible. Rolling onto his back with an arm thrown over his eyes as a precautionary measure, he smiled -- not that he could stop himself -- the dream had truly been delicious, whatever it had been. Couldn't quite remember now, vanishing like wisps of smoke over the Quay no matter how hard he tried to cling to them. Jack would be amused; he found the very concept of not remembering one's dreams as ludicrous as wearing perfume. The 51st century mind simply remembered -- or perhaps was trained, Ianto theorized -- to capture dreams in Jack's time, the explorations of the subconscious a viable science and every thought of the imagination valued.

Jack had never commented whether the memory thing worked for nightmares, though Ianto rather assumed it did. He couldn't decide which was worse, forgetting the truly delightful or remembering the utterly horrible.

Jack.

Startled, Ianto physically started in a half-articulated flail as his legs were bound, blind panic clouding all reason for a moment before he realized it was only bedding tangling his legs. Bedding. Seven hundred threads per square inch. Kidnapped. Drugged. Halcyon. The Doctor.

The Windhovers were dead.

He remembered; he remembered everything, albeit from a hazy, distant point of view which was remarkably less traumatic than it had felt the night before. Night? His gaze bounced around the room in tempo with his heart thundering against his chest and Ianto cursed himself for doing such a shitty job of composing himself. He was a better Torchwood agent than that. London had taught him decorum if nothing more, constriction of self until only propriety in the name of Queen and country remained. Old habits born of necessity were hard to break though, and still that frightened-yet-resilient boy lingered behind the suits and regulations. Ianto knew he did, he saw him from time to time. Like now, cowed and awed as he clutched the bedding to his chest.

The room he was in ... was quite large.

No, 'large' discredited the room's scope. It was enormous.

And oddly enough, Ianto noted as he took in the room, rather like his bedroom in Cardiff.

Exactly like his bedroom in Cardiff, if his bedroom was a scaled model and blended with ... no, he knew those vaulted ceilings. And the windows stretching three stories above his head with scattered alcoves tucked in seeming random fashion, though perhaps there was a method. Knew them even if he'd never been there, knew them even if by rights the crystalline structures had been destroyed eons in the past. It was Windhover architecture, he knew it despite the simple fact that he shouldn't. And the familiarity clung to him like home even if his own bed (or what looked like his bed) was arranged in the middle of the room with his nightstand and end lamp and for fuck's sake, the book he had been reading rested perfectly square with the corners of the end table. With hesitation born more of certainty than doubt, Ianto walked to the end table and picked up the book. A quick flip to the bookmark revealed what he'd assumed: the page marked was where he had left off. The bookmark was different, however, and for some reason that little touch relieved him. Lisa had given him that bookmark -- a glow-in-the-dark alien flashing the peace sign -- and to have that repeated here would have some how tainted that memory. No, not tainted. But Ianto liked that the original hadn't been duplicated.

Other things were the same, a chair he kept for late-night reading but really became a second wardrobe for storing the clothing he was going to take to the cleaners stood empty near the bed. The bedding was different; these were the cranberry of his favorite pajama bottoms and he only kept white or an inky blue, depending on his mood. The lamp was the same, however, down to the last blue stripe and the shade Jack had accidentally elbowed and dented.

The little details had nothing on the room itself, however.

As Ianto spun in a slow circle, he felt both dwarfed and comforted by the, well, no other term for it but organic. None of the windows were actually rectangular -- more a mash of straight lines and corners -- and the towering walls jutted inwards at points, bending outwards at others, creating pockets of shadows and brilliant spectacles of light despite no apparent light source. Ianto wasn't even sure if there were panes of glass in the windows and how that was accomplished on a ship which traveled through space he hadn't the faintest idea. But it wasn't that the walls (more than four, but Ianto wouldn't describe the room as round nor as possessing a determinable number of planes) were arranged chaotically, or that the design lacked a solid structural support. There was method, somehow. Maybe not science as these were most certainly unlike any crystal form he'd ever seen. But there was method. And a sense of comfort.

It was the comfort in what looked like a child's scribble -- which to the child might look exactly as the object appeared within their untamed imaginative mind -- that concerned Ianto. How was such a structure plausible, much less constructable?

Now intrigued, Ianto moved towards one of the walls -- could he even call them walls when they went so contrary to everything he believed a wall should be? From a distance, the walls appeared a cross between polished black stone and crystal, less opaque than obsidian but possessing that particular gleam. But as he moved closer, the less 'crystal' it looked and the more unrecognizable it became. The black was no longer black, he realized as he stretched a hand from beneath the sheets still wrapped tightly around his body. It was opalescent, the fiery rainbow which gleamed within the heart of an opal only instead of prismatic colors the walls gleamed with tumbling shades of stormy purple and jagged streaks of jade. Familiar colors and yet so foreign, blooming and withering within the inky blackness of the walls. The surface gave slightly beneath his touch, nothing he'd fear breaking but it felt rather like firm gelatin, and it was warm, warmer than the surrounding air but not radiating heat.

Double-paned glass. That's what it reminded him of. If one would fill the inside space with black smoke and shined a green light from the bottom, that's almost what the wall looked like. But rather than panes of glass, there was the firm-yet-not surface trapping the black within. Within what Ianto had no bloody clue -- the stormy clouds in violet hue appeared to stretch into forever, which was impossible since it was a wall no matter if it was Windhover built or not.

Except maybe when it was possible.

Ianto forced himself away from the wall, he'd do himself no good staring into a space he couldn't explain, and looked about the room. He felt the TARDIS tickle the corner of his mind as he did so, she seemed so proud? Apologetic? Searching ... for his approval? The room was definitely spectacular and fell beyond grandiose and he should have felt completely out of place in something so exceeding his standards. But it was Windhover in design, mixed with the familiar sights of his bedroom in Cardiff, producing a welcoming atmosphere that felt ... like home.

He approved, even if he didn't exactly understand why.

***

Ianto had quickly found the washroom, opting to wash away the stink of dried sweat and fear before seeking out the Doctor. He should have been surprised when he stepped into the attached room to discover his washroom, just like in Cardiff, but he wasn't. Maybe he was overwhelmed, or maybe he'd just become numb, but he hadn't even blinked as he quickly moved through his morning ablutions, using the mindless tasks to organize his thoughts and questions for the Doctor. He was fairly certain he wasn't a prisoner on board the TARDIS, no matter the hijinks and drugging which Ianto had to admit actually left him feeling more refreshed than any Earth sedative. What he didn't like doing was giving the Doctor any credit as the memory of the man was enough to raise his hackles once again, itching at the opportunity to ... do something. Anything. Even if it was just to slug him, which Ianto felt a bit like doing given due cause or not.

The Windhovers were gone and Ianto had no direction for his anger or grief, all of which were so innate and yet foreign as he hadn't actually known any of his species. It wasn't like he'd lost loved ones or friends. But yet the emotions were still there, burning just below the surface like it'd always existed but he'd never before recognized it. He knew that wasn't correct, however, because he hadn't perceived those emotions prior to seeing the ruin of Halcyon, spanning space as far as his eye could see. He was aware of his emotions, and losing the ones he'd loved - Lisa, his mother and father - had taught him grief while losing Torchwood One had given him both helplessness and guilt. This, however, was new. Despairing. A constant bleeding gash in his body that he couldn't identify the injury much less triage.

He'd feel better punching the Doctor. Even if the action was undeserved.

Ianto had no clothes, or at least the suit he had been wearing was missing. He'd found himself both surprised and yet not upon entering the washroom, dropping the sheets still wrapped about him to discover himself in his boxer briefs and undershirt. Embarrassed would perhaps be the operative word and Ianto refused to consider how and when he had been divested of his clothes. He still wasn't entirely sure how to act given his complete loss of sense when he witnessed the memory or whatever it had been of the Windhover's annihilation -- losing control so utterly when he was in a situation demanding control was inexcusable and Jack would have his hide (or should, given the protocol found on page one-forty-six of the Torchwood Manual) when he returned.

Frowning as he realized he didn't know the 'when' portion of his return, Ianto opened the wardrobe in his quest to find something respectable he could wear to confront the Doctor in. He didn't quite know what he'd been expecting, maybe spare clothing the Doctor wore which would probably not fit Ianto's frame but he was hoping for maybe some loose denims or something ...

He shouldn't have been surprised, but he was.

The wardrobe held clothing, none of which seemed so extraordinarily different that he couldn't see himself wearing, but that wasn't what surprised him. What did was the first shirt he pulled out, a soft material he'd never encountered before which felt cool as silk to the touch but moved like linen. Just a fluke, he figured, and slipped it back on the bar he'd found it on, skipping a few shirts down and withdrew a deep red shirt, an odd cross between a t-shirt and an oxford but it was the same as the first. Ianto put it back and flipped through all the shirts, ranging in textures from leather to cashmere and designs from sleeveless to turtlenecks but they were all the same even if the sizes varied wildly. Every single one of them.

Slats. Two of them, centered mid-back and finely tailored for both strength and comfort.

His hands shook despite every effort to still them as he held up a knit shirt in black, spinning it around so he could poke two fingers in the back as though his eyes deceived him and he needed the touch to verify. They weren't mistakes in the craftsmanship, in fact the tailoring was remarkable and Ianto knew if his father could see it he'd be impressed with the manufacture of the shirts. But these ... the garments were made for him. His species. Perhaps made by them. There were multiple sizes. This wasn't the TARDIS's doing like she had the room; they weren't custom to him. These were ... but that meant ...

Ianto sat on the chair he usually kept for storing dirty suits and stared both at the wardrobe and the shirt in hand. It didn't make sense, any of it. Clothing designed for the Windhovers -- wait, they couldn't be the only winged species, right? Perhaps he was making something of nothing. But even as Ianto thought it the idea slipped away, leaving him rather certain that members of his species had at one time traveled on the TARDIS. They'd traveled on the TARDIS despite the Doctor? In glad company of the Doctor? That made even less sense as Ianto could barely tolerate the man's presence as it was.

His breathing echoed loudly in the still silence of the room, pulsing off the walls that weren't really walls in rhythm with the ebb and flow of his thoughts. They kept circling back to one thing: the Doctor knew the Windhovers. He'd met them, perhaps traveled with them, he knew them. Which meant he might find some answers. And that was the point where his thoughts dispersed and stuck their mental tongues out at him in childish protest. Answers meant speaking with the Doctor. Answers meant asking him questions. Answers meant being conciliatory.

Smothering a shudder at the thought, Ianto stood and resolutely faced the wardrobe. He'd not survived life by cowering when faced with adversity and he wasn't about to now.

***

"Oh, brilliant. You're awake. Come on then, they sell out fast."

Ianto stared blankly as he exited the hallway into the bridge of the TARDIS, frozen mid-step as he watched the Doctor open the door and rush out without looking back. Whatever reception he'd been expecting, Ianto had not expected that. He'd worked himself up to asking a few questions, excusing any impugning of his dignity for asking the Doctor of all people help into knowing who he and the Windhovers were, only to have that tossed aside like yesterday's newspaper by the Doctor's odd behavior. Odd if only by normal's standards; Ianto was coming to realize that anything concerning the Doctor should not be judged by normality and perhaps that explained Jack's attraction to the man. Ianto honestly didn't see it; where on Jack the compulsion for idiosyncrasy was part of his charm, on the Doctor, for a man his age and record, it simply looked foolish.

"I hear they have the best coffee next to yours." The Doctor's head appeared in the doorway again, enthusiasm evident even if he hadn't been wearing the manic grin. Ianto definitely failed to see what attracted Jack to this man to the extent he would leave his team at the chance to return. "I wouldn't know, can't stomach coffee myself but I have it on good authority it's palatable."

He watched the Doctor vanish once again, unmasked incredulity felt even in his fingertips so Ianto knew it must be written plainly on his face. He'd be ashamed by the lack of composure but he really was having too difficult a time as he struggled to make sense of ... everything. Only the day before -- was it yesterday if the concept of linear time was now relative to the perceptions of the one onboard a ship that could travel time? -- he'd been in the Archives of Torchwood, been affronted by a man whose crimes against the universe threatened to overwhelm him, then taken hostage by the Doctor's bloody TARDIS, saw Halcyon, had some odd flashback to the death of the Windhovers, and was drugged by the Doctor.

And now the man wanted breakfast (or lunch or dinner, whenever they were) instead of explaining himself or returning Ianto to Torchwood?

Maybe the daylight was actually Cardiff and the Doctor had returned him. There were, after all, a few coffee shops in Cardiff that brewed a decent coffee.

Ianto hadn't considered that, and wouldn't he look foolish standing motionless and gawking at the door if Jack and the others were outside.

Stiffening his spine until he was sure his back would snap if he slouched, Ianto tugged at the sleeves of the black jacket he wore (for all appearances looking like it came from a military surplus store, though definitely not British for all the buckles and trim cut) and tried to ignore the press of the black t-shirt at his back. He was being ridiculous, the slats were no more bulky than the rest of the shirt and definitely not visible beneath the jacket (he'd checked in a mirror) but he still felt them as a brand upon his back like the biggest neon blinking arrow he'd ever seen, screaming to everyone that he was different.

He was, he supposed. So was the Doctor. So was Jack. Hell, so was Owen for that matter. But the shirt just made it feel more obvious, more permanent. More authentic. He wasn't ready for reality yet.

Determined, Ianto decided he was being utterly daft and stiffly crossed the threshold -- an action that felt less strident without his suit -- into brilliant daylight that made his eyes protest as they quickly tried to adapt to the change in lighting. Blinded for a moment, he stopped to wait until his eyes adjusted, then unnecessarily blinked at what he saw.

Then blinked again.

The landscape didn't change, and neither did the smirking buffoon in front of him, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he waited for Ianto. He ignored the Doctor for a moment, taking the time to take in his surroundings.

Definitely not Cardiff.

Not even Earth, if he wasn't mistaken. And Ianto was fairly certain he wasn't, because the tree next to the TARDIS had salmon-colored leaves. So did the grass. Grass? Could it be called grass if it functioned under a completely different growth process than Earth-grass? It was leafy, whatever it was, bladed, like grass. Only the odd orangish-pink made the meadow look straight out of a child's drawing rather than Earth-like.

The flying vehicle that zipped over their heads was quite possibly another clue that they were not in Cardiff. Or at least not the Cardiff he knew.

No, he knew this planet. Well, he didn't know-know it; he'd never been there before. But Ianto knew it as his mind helpfully filled in the gaps while he looked at the small village just up the path from them. Trahgdar. The time period wasn't quite certain, nor was it really applicable Ianto assumed, as he had no frame of reference in relation to Earth-time. But it was Trahgdar. He didn't know much else, there was an indigenous population (the Dinoud), their monetary system was mostly mercantile barter, and in terms of threat, it was incredibly low. In fact, the threat level read 'minimal.'

And the Doctor's appearance would probably destroy any peace it enjoyed. Brilliant.

"Welcome to the planet -"

"Trahgdar." Ianto supplied with a quick smile he didn't really mean as he stuffed his hands in the pockets of trousers that weren't quite denim. He didn't see any point in pretending, the Doctor knew what he was and if it filled him with a little immature pleasure to kill that manic grin, well, that was just an added bonus. It just wasn't right -- the list of destruction and ruin stretched in his mind, but the Doctor didn't act like there was a problem of any kind. Not that Ianto was sure how the Doctor ought to be acting beneath the weight of his crimes, but a little more stoicism might be appropriate.

As if on cue the gleeful smile fell, and damned if Ianto didn't feel a bit guilty for it. He looked rather like Ianto had kicked his proverbial puppy. Ianto bit back the apology, however. He felt a twinge of guilt, not a complete dismissal of Windhover instinct.

"It's pronounced Trahgt-ar," the Doctor corrected, producing a guttural sound that Ianto assumed was the native dialect. Ianto supposed he deserved the correction, just a bit. "Interesting etymology. Stems from the ancient Coushine root y-trahgr which means, ah, roughly 'tasty greens' in your English..."

The Doctor turned abruptly and started walking up a trail which led to the village Ianto could see in the distance, never looking back to see if he followed or not. Ianto looked back at the TARDIS, debating his options amidst the salmon-colored foliage and flying vehicles on a planet somewhere in the known universe, in a time between the dawning and end of all things.

Coffee won, no matter the company.

***

Next part of The Windhovers: The Fledgling.

• Main Torchwood slash page
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• Amazon.com - Torchwood: Children of Earth
• Amazon.co.uk - Torchwood - Children of Earth [DVD] [2009]
• Amazon.ca link - Torchwood - The Complete First Season (7DVD)