Title: Shades of Ianto - Prologue
Author: sarcasticchick
Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: This is an AU based on canon.
A/N: 1) I do not own these characters nor am I intending to use them for money (unless I'm being bribed, see #4).
2) SoI is based on some far-ranging theories and backstory that I am aware will most likely be jossed. But until 2008 or I hear from the man himself, anything is possible. See note 6.
3) This series will cover pre-S1 as well as all episodes in S1. Initial 4-5 chapters will be preS1.
4) The Secretary of State for Research and Resource Acquisition does not exist. However, neither does Torchwood. Both make an appearance in my story.
5) No spoilers for DW3 or TW2.
Summary: Ianto is more than just a teaboy.

***

"Mr. Jones, Ms. White will see you now."

Ianto Jones turned from the window with a casual smile. He recognized her from before. Simone. Simone Archer. Office gossip, trendsetter, married to Dennis Archer from Accounting, fucking Collin Phillips from Archives every Tuesday and Thursday between 10:00 and 10:15 on their breaks and every Friday at noon.

That was before. Now Simone was a widow with last season's shoes, highlights months overdue, tailored espresso twill suit coat shiny with wear at the elbows and hanging awkwardly off her frame. She'd lost weight, the glasses were new and Ianto was fairly certain her eyes weren't red from crying. Not that he'd blame her if she still was, but her skin was perfumed by alcohol, 80 proof, bouquet of Glenlivet. He'd feel pity but they'd all lost someone … someones.

But some were luckier than others.

He paused on his way to the ornate double oak doors shielding the Secretary of State's office from view, resting his hand on her shoulder with a light squeeze. Typically, he didn't touch; he never was quite comfortable with demonstration in any public sense of the word. But her hand joined his, matching his sympathy with commiseration he didn't deserve but felt better for it. Maybe he did feel pity. Or maybe it was guilt that their bond, whatever horrors forever linked them as 'one of them', wasn't as complete as it should be. Ianto could swear she sensed it, her carefully lined red eyes piercing the sorrow in his own and seeing him for what he was, for seeing his hope and determination.

He meant his 'thank you' as he fled the reception area, even if it sounded artificial to his ears.

"Mr. Jones. Come, sit down."

Ianto closed the office doors behind him, taken aback as always by the rich beauty of the room -- so contrary to how one would imagine the offices governing any and all alien technology and the unexplained. Bookshelves lined the walls, artifacts from around the globe dotting every available surface. Deep-stained oak, dark leather, a smell of timelessness and appreciation for mankind.

He hated this room.

He had catalogued the office long ago; the texts foreign, mystical and alien memorized. He'd read most, his curiosity bringing him here in the late hours when all had gone home and after he'd seduced the security system guarding against unwanted guests. Textbooks, guides and fables filled the room with tales and study of the unexplained. Original manuscripts, copies, lithographs and encoded alien lightbooks told grand stories of space travel and conquest, love and victory, defeat and war, human insight and foreign observance. The presentation of open acceptance of cultures vast and timeless; the presentation of hypocrisy knotted his stomach and made him ill. He knew a first edition of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, three volumes, rested at eye level on the main bookshelf, the pride and joy of the collection. Frankenstein set the tone of the room - a dark portrayal of the arrogance of men. Nothing suited the office better.

"Ms. White." The name slipped easily off his tongue. Ianto wasted no time, handing the carefully typed letter to the Secretary of State before appropriating one of the chairs and sitting stiffly in the antique straight-back while she read. He kept his eyes trained on her, refusing to look anxiously about the room as he wished to do, alerting security to the fact that he was aware of the various cameras and deeper security measures protecting the office. It wouldn't do to intrigue them, to make them question his intent or purpose. This was a quick visit; no need to rouse suspicion.

"You're requesting a transfer to Cardiff?"

He didn't miss the surprised reaction, the slight paper shake as his letter was set on the massive oak desk stretching more than arm's length across the room. She wore her hair back these days, a severe look which Ianto theorized was supposed to intone a more serious professional look. It had been a mass of deep brown, almost black, waves back in the day. Of late, encouraged by stress and a testament to the false name, it had faded past salt and pepper to white. He wouldn't want her job right now, not even if it came with a nice retirement package, especially if one began to look the title.

"You are needed in London, Mr. Jones. Torchwood must be rebuilt."

How to explain to the one who controlled all that if he ever set foot in the London Torchwood, he would set the place ablaze himself? For all it contained, for all its knowledge and valuable tools, it was only a matter of time before it was again tainted by arrogance and the zealous quest to use the incomprehensible for personal gain. It would destroy them all. Again.

"With respect, Ms. White, I have no desire to remain in London. Everything that kept me here has been lost."

Her response was slow; quietly he prided himself in causing her pain. "Everything?"

Inside, Ianto's mind shook with fire, the foundations trembling as the structure threatened collapse around him. Rage and pain shattered glass, imploding shards capturing his heart in the crossfire but he remained standing, screaming his fury when little was left to cling to. Outwardly, he remained impassive, casual, knowing his reply would either guarantee his position or destroy his single chance. "Everything," he reaffirmed, voice level and certain. She was the first to look away, having searched his eyes for whatever she believed ought to be found and failed. He didn't smile at the victory, didn't move, elbows still rested on the curved arm and his hand clasped loosely in front of him. He would get his transfer; he simply had to wait. Ms. White stood, running a hand over the leather-bound books behind her, fingering a title here and there which may have held an answer or may have prophetically signaled an end of days. Ianto wasn't sure and he did not care.

"Request granted. You will transfer immediately to Cardiff." She resumed her place behind the desk, stretching as a queen dictating orders to her subjects from her throne. Ianto wasn't impressed or awed; nor was he struck dumb by intimidation. He knew the act for what it was and knew she held no power over him, no matter how much she wished the contrary.

"You will be my eyes and ears at Cardiff." Ianto was surprised by this, he hadn't planned that request and he blinked before he could stop himself. Cursing the tell-tale sign, he listened to understand her purpose, wary of contradictions to his own plans and in general of anything for her favor. "Torchwood Three is led by a maverick who has rebelled against this office's governance. You will watch him, discover his purpose and report back to me."

His first reaction was to protest -- he was no spy, he was no traitor to leadership. Hundreds of excuses, of reasons why he would do no such thing paced his tongue and he quickly sought one which would be the most logical and unarguable debate. She cut him off, however, her voice sharp and more like the Ms. White of old, when minions cowered and obeyed -- before she lost one Torchwood and destroyed another. "You work for Torchwood. Therefore, you work for me. Remember where your loyalties and duty lie, Mr. Jones. Do not force me to remind you."

"Yes, Ms. White." He rose from his chair. The conversation was over as far as she was concerned and no response other than blind agreement would be accepted". Ianto had no choice, as much as it sickened him. His plans included Cardiff; he would do as was ordered.

"Ianto."

He turned slowly, nearly halfway to escape, the doors beckoning him to disobey, to flee and begin packing his belongings. Their belongings. He had a flat to box and ship to Cardiff, along with other items of far more importance. He knew also knew of another means of escape, a hidden door of which most were unaware. Jean-Luc, a grade 1 TKE, stood as sentinel behind the false pane to his left. They had been friends when he had been younger, when he'd needed escape. After discovering they shared an intense dislike for the woman in charge, Jean-Luc had permitted Ianto free reign about the building and the office, allowing him to sneak in to curl up on a leather couch to read by the light of a torch without reporting his entry (or killing him, which Ianto considered a most extreme penalty for study, no matter how unpermitted). The panel looked real, solid bookshelf and row upon row of books, and it was, technically. If your mind believed it there without doubt, then it existed, even if in reality it was no more than a protection of a powerful telepathic mind. Behind the panel concept was the door to one of the great secrets of the office, Torchwood being the other. For while there existed aliens and alien tech, there also existed the unexplained among humanity. And, Ianto darkly amused himself with the thought, they were to be exploited for the good of Britain as well.

Refocusing on the woman behind the desk, knowing he couldn't run away as he had done in his youth, Ms. White looked as weary as Ianto felt, old and weary, her hands folded as though in prayer against her lips. The battle had been hard on her; new lines etched her face and Ianto had heard rumors of problems with blood pressure, but truthfully, Ianto felt only betrayal. She was the reason for the loss and the grief; she was the reason he was fleeing to Cardiff. She was the reason, ultimately, for all things.

"For what it's worth, I am sorry about Lisa. We liked her, though I only knew her CV. Your father said it was the only time he heard you laugh, such a serious boy you were. I should have liked to hear you laugh."

Ianto closed his eyes, counted to ten and back again, fingers curling into his palms. He felt the slight brush of cool tranquility from the ever governing Jean-Luc across the public corner of his mind, the one spot Ianto allowed access. He wished to destroy everything in this room, everything this office stood for and claimed, but he couldn't. Not yet. He still needed it, needed Ms. White as much as she, apparently, needed him. Ms. White. What irony, for there was nothing pure or innocent about her.

"You should have liked many things, mother," Ianto managed to spit out, collecting a professional temper long lost once she delved into the personal, "but family was never one of them. Elaine has twin boys, did you know? Bryce and Gareth. They're two now. Gavin Evans, R&D. He was a kind man, good to Elaine. She's moved back with dad. He did a good job raising us, after all."

Silence stretched between them, echoing off the shadowed corners of the office and speaking of years of indifference and abandonment. She'd never cared when they were children; Ianto wasn't surprised when it continued to her grandkids. Her own flesh and blood were never more important than the children of the Center; they were never special enough to warrant the time. Ianto had accepted it, even if Elaine hadn't. Bryce and Garreth actually believed their grandmum dead, and neither Elaine nor Gavin had ever had the heart to say that she wasn't.

"Well played, son, well played." His mother whispered after a moment as she stared out the one set of windows in the room, huge stained glass panels, an old Gothic depiction of St. George and the dragon that allowed just enough natural light in the room to taint the walls and floor blood red. She didn't look at Ianto again, merely waved his dismissal after throwing a file in front of Ianto and straightening papers on her desk already perfectly aligned. "I expect your first report on my desk Monday morning, Mr. Jones."

"Yes, Ms. White." Ianto didn't hesitate, eagerly accepting the shift back to formalities as his cue to leave. The air had become too stifling and his collar too tight to breathe, threatening his calm. He feared leaking something about Lisa to Jean-Luc he didn't intend. He didn't think he would lose his barriers so quickly after all, Torchwood had taught him well and Ianto was always the top of his class, but he was admittedly rattled by the encounter. A fast escape meant security for the plan. He grabbed the file without a thought and strode out of the office, strode quickly, the devil on his heels. Simone at reception called a farewell but he didn't respond, his voice threatened by his previous conversation. After all those years, she had the audacity to pretend to care, to act like they had meant anything at all. She had left for the job, and the job had taken her. He refused to let it take him, or to take the one whose love meant more than whatever scraps his mother might dangle before him. She couldn't have that. And now, with things progressing according to plan, she wouldn't.

He did permit himself to smile once he'd left the building, out of Jean-Luc's range, and caught the tube back to his flat. Breathing the free air, he embraced his ultimate victory.

It was time to pack their things.

***

Fire rained from the ceiling, missiles of molten steel blackening everything it touched, like the acid from the horn of the alien beast that had been terrorizing visitors outside St. Paul's Cathedral. This floor was the worst, where a battle had been waged and even now beams from spent energy weapons snapped electrical wires, sparking fire though the fight had moved on. The air was clouded, so thick it couldn't be breathed; he was being suffocated by a pillow of ash-inbued air.

He coughed, he cried, god he knows he cried. He didn't see anyone, there were only the two of them struggling through the hallways, dodging crumpled figures on the ground. What he saw, the images were too much, too vivid to remember and so a shadow was left on in his memory, a darkened, black imageless hollow where a life once breathed that gave testament to their existence. He couldn't say who they once were. He didn't remember. He couldn't. He couldn't remember and so they remained nameless shadows, holes in time and space.

The walls tumbled around the blackened shadows, crashing inward with the weight of the dead as panes of clear plastic melted into toxic puddles on the floor. Some still rational corner of his mind noted that the sprinkler system had never engaged; water should be streaming from the ceiling and masking his tears, but there was nothing to stop the flame, nothing to hide the shame or desperation.

He couldn't stop moving, though, couldn't stop, not until they were out. Not until they were free, and the only way they could be free was if he found the door. It was a secured exit, supposed to be secured. The frame was bent, manned by another victim of violence Ianto could not force himself to remember, the guard's screams long since quiet. Not upgradeable, apparently. Caught in the crossfire. The desk where the guard had been doing paperwork was still there, now alight in brilliant flame, black plastic inbox sagging, the paper...

...the paper's edges curled in glowing red-orange, turning black as the fuel was used and the flame crept onwards, fighting to live. Words distorted, growing strangely focused and highlighted before melting back. White turned black and then dirty grey. Ash flaked and shattered into dust as heated currents of air destroyed the fragile balance.

A photograph browned from the inside out. It curved and twisted around a metal paper clip as a hole ate through its center, then shriveled into a melted mass. The face was unrecognizable, but the clothing Ianto would remember. He would remember everything. Every fact, every detail as the file burned and the data lost, Ianto would remember...

...Lisa's screams as he dragged her through the halls. He didn't see any Torchwood member, not that Ianto was trying to see. Lisa struggled and fought his movements as much as she helped. More than once she tripped him, planting him on his arse, but it was only an accident. She was in so much pain.

He had no more than righted them the last time when he was stopped in their race for freedom, by their armed and armoured adversary. Ianto's stomach dropped to his toes in sheer panic and despair. They were so close -- the door was two corridors down and to the left. Ianto tried to wrestle Lisa behind him, to shield her from the Cyberman, but she was uncooperative. She screamed and pled for release, and Ianto wouldn't think about what she might mean. She didn't understand, didn't know what Ianto was trying to do for her. He begged for her trust as the Cyberman bore down on them.

"Duty for Queen and country." As he heard the words repeated, Ianto's stomach traveled from toes to throat to strangle his last breath even as the Cyberman turned heel and marched down the hall away from them, Sick, he braced himself against Lisa for a moment as he broke for the first time since the Dalek and Cyberman incursion, despite knowing that breaking was unbecoming to a Torchwood employee. He gagged, he cried, he knew he cried but he couldn't help himself.

Nothing would be the same. Torchwood was lost. The world may be lost as well, given time, no matter which side won the battle. There was nothing he could about it, nothing he could do but try to escape. There was nothing more he could do for Torchwood. But there was still something he could do for Lisa. The Cyberman had recognized him, no, Yvonne had recognized him. Some part of her remained. And that meant Lisa....

Sounds of weapons fire drove him onward, spitting the remnants of acidic saliva from his mouth as he encouraged Lisa and pulled her away. Away from the pink-toned battle, deeper into the smoke that curled and licked its way around his shoulders, tickled its way into his nose, slithering into his lungs and though his body until all he was spoke ash and smoke....

...ash and smoke were all that remained. Without the flickering orange-red flames dancing before him, sucking him into history, his mind was too good at remembering detail for detail -- save for the faces of the fallen which were blissfully blank. Ianto stirred, rolling his shoulders to reawaken sleeping limbs. Satisfied with his first glance, Ianto poked through the ashes with an iron fireplace poker, vintage handle twisted into a basketweave loop. It had been part of a set Lisa had loved. Now he used it to ensure all had been destroyed, and was pleased when he saw nothing from the file could be read or retrieved.

Not that he'd make a habit of it, but there was admittedly a small bit of childish glee in destroying a file that was the property of the Secretary of State for Research and Resource Acquisition. The small thrill matched the time he had dropped her favorite coffee mug on a tiled floor, watching it shatter into a thousand pieces. He had claimed it was an accident. She had forgotten Elaine's birthday. Again. Despite Ianto writing it in red on her day planner. Ianto didn't care about his own birthdays that she had forgotten, but every year he comforted Elaine when she cried in the night. Every forgotten birthday marked another year come and gone with nothing more than a formal invitation to spend the allotted two months with their mother in London. Or rather, with the nannies she hired to watch after them.

That had been no accident; neither was this.

Ianto washed his hands meticulously in the shower, washing by rote, washing by need, scrubbing beneath his nails and in the grooves of his palms. Washing away any remaining blackened soot from hands which shook with apprehension. He cleaned his teeth, shaved, ran gelled fingers though his hair and mopped dry the scattered water droplets on the counter. Nothing out of place, everything perfectly aligned. With a steady breath and nightmares yesterday's business, he dressed in charcoal grey and coal black, restoring formality pristine crease by pristine crease, The comfort of wool blend blanketed him with cool efficiency. Finally he stood before the mirror, adjusting his tie, light ash, pushing it towards his throat until it fell into place with every straight line.

"One step closer." Ianto spoke clearly to the glass, slipping into a role he knew and understood. He stopped by the night table to the right of the headboard - Lisa preferred the left side, back to the wall, while he preferred the right, a glass of water within reach in the middle of the night -- and touched the single photo affectionately, warmed by Lisa's smile. They would make more memories like this one, soon, once he'd put the situation to right.

Soon.

Glancing at the clock on the far wall, he slipped on his charcoal grey suit jacket, picked up his keys, and left his new flat. Ianto was ready for his first day back on the job.

***

Ianto struggled to maintain an outward facade of calm -- a model of Torchwood One's finest arrogance and dispassion, training, and culture leached into every fiber as he patiently scanned the brochures and postcards littering the Information desk. With his hands held smartly behind his back, he was a picture of perfected casual disinterest. Viscerally, he felt each cell shrieking and shrinking in disgust as they scaled each other, fighting for position in the center of his body furthest from the source, a battle threatening his calm. His breakfast (coffee, black) swam in his belly, crashing in on itself as his stomach knotted and twisted, rolling and swirling and fighting with his body's cells for the privilege of existing in the space reserved for digestion. The battle was nauseating and he wasn't entirely sure his stomach would emerge the victor.

The place was ... foul and unsanitary. A trove of disuse and adulterated repair. Dust settled on the desktop, falling in ever-thickening strata as time passed. Most popular apparently was a guide of Snowdonia, the colors less muted through a haze of dinge, whites almost white but mostly ecru, misty mountainscapes more matted and blurred. Multiple Rorschach blots decorated the floor -- one bearing a rather remarkable resemblance to Margaret Thatcher -- and suspicious stains permanently darkened the tattered area rug. Some looked less foreign, more solid in nature; Ianto was fairly certain one spot was an aged remnant of a chocolate digestive smashed into the cheap cotton weave. Wooden support beams dressed in dusty lace webs lined the stone walls; one needed support itself from a second wooden brace, the original one splintered by the years. The stone walls themselves dripped with mold and grime, time painting its passing with brackish hues of green and black, lending a metallic scent of salty mildewed decay to the air. Even the ceiling was not exempt, with streaks of ruddy water damage marring the white; nor were the rusting bolts holding the lightplates or the spotted glass with spindles of reddish brown slime slowly crossing the panes protecting the display shelves.

Ianto wasn't surprised that no one was at the desk, nor had ventured forth upon his arrival; the place was a hazard.

Not that they weren't watching, whomever 'they' might be. He had identified three cameras, not the CCTV standard, upon entering the Information Center. All were tucked away from pedestrian notice, crossing view fields to leave no point invisible. They were watching, Torchwood Three. And that above all else kept him from turning tail and leaving to bathe away the stench and grime, to dream of white walls and a terminal cleanliness purchased by an unlimited gold-lined pocketbook.

That thought -- that he would crave the sterilized perfection of the forsaken children of Icarus -- was nearly more disgusting than the appearance of the 'reception desk' at Torchwood Three. Which was worse he wasn't sure, but the information he had acquired during his research into the Cardiff branch had failed to mention the office's physical state or else he might have prepared himself by donning a hazmat suit and flame thrower to eradicate the decay.

Minutes passed; soon an hour. He never looked at his watch, never wishing to give any satisfaction to the ones who may be watching the feed. Besides, his constant inner clock ticked away each second spent idling in the sorry excuse for an Information Desk. Perhaps the members of Torchwood Three were waiting for him to leave, waiting for one of them -- one of the survivors, the ones who garner looks and distrust as they pass those who know -- to give up and flee of his own accord. He'd seen it on the faces of the U.N.I.T. psychologists brought in to evaluate the remaining population for cracks in sanity before returning them to active service, and in the field agents away from the home office during the battle. It wasn't a “congratulations, you survived” look. It wasn't pity or sorrow or even acknowledgement of the grief. It was a question: “Why you? Why did you survive? How did you survive?” Ianto constantly asked himself the same thing with every breath every time he returned to the abandoned bomb shelter on the outer edge of Cardiff where he had temporarily hidden Lisa. Why him? The only answer he could positively entertain was that he was the only one who could save her. He was the only one who would consider the possibility of reversing the process. He was saved because it was not Lisa's time to die.

"I wouldn't recommend it this time of year -- a bit drafty."

Ianto turned from the brochure on Cardiff Castle (he'd been there half a dozen times as a child) at the sound of the American accent, startled by the arrival he'd missed and curious from where the man had come. The black and white photograph had been quite accurate, right down to the disarming grin, braces, and the hands stuffed in the pockets. He was missing the long coat, but Ianto would have recognized the man in a dimly lit hall surrounded by thousands. This was the infamous Captain Jack Harkness, leader of Torchwood Three. Pain in the arse of Ms. White and, if the file details were true, more knowledgeable about aliens than a human should be. Not to mention unnaturally old for a human. Extremely unnatural.

He looked good for his age, Ianto decided, whatever that might be. "I'm here for an interview, actually. Would you kindly inform Captain Harkness that his 9 o'clock is here?" Ianto smiled his polite smile, the one used around family when they questioned when he was going to settle down and marry, have children, move back to the family home to maintain the small general store that also acted as library and coffee house.

The man looked at his wrist as if time was remotely connected to Ianto's job opportunity. The word had come down from on-high; Torchwood Three had no option -- he would work for the Cardiff branch. "It's after 10," Jack's artificial smile spoke volumes of his unwelcome. One less determined might have conceded and left with what dignity they had, forgetting the job and finding employment elsewhere only to be retconned and blissfully ignorant the following morning. Ianto privately wondered if that were possible and just how much retcon it would take for him to forget a lifetime of the unexplained.

However, Ianto had Lisa. He hadn't come this far only to be frightened away by an arrogant, elitist bastard in period military who believed he chose his team. He worked for Torchwood -- no one would work for that branch unless Ms. White approved it. That begged the question why this Captain Harkness was employed and remained so to this day despite the disfavor found among the Secretary and her colleagues. Ianto could see why she disliked Jack, though. He was contrary to everything she preferred -- order, hierarchy, authority, control. Ianto might have liked him for the rebellion, if Jack hadn't just made him wait for an hour and ten minutes. "Perhaps next time I’ll have a herald announce my presence, sir."

Jack's answering grin was real this time, or at least more real than it had been, artificial and distrusting in the same instant. Ianto didn’t need to be trusted, and he didn’t need Jack’s trust. He didn't need friends, healthy work relationships, attention, any of those things that were supposed to make life worthwhile. He needed Lisa and the life she represented -- his own and what once was before everything was lost to pride and pain. With this job, he would have it. Anywhere else and the use of alien technology would alert Torchwood to her existence; Ianto couldn't risk testing their skill. No, only here in Cardiff did he have the necessary equipment, power supply, and secrecy to make this work.

“So Ianto Jones has a bite.”

Ianto inclined his head, playing deference to authority and acknowledging the gambit for what it was, faking surprise at the revelation. “Captain Harkness.” The man was so different from Yvonne's extreme professionalism and drive, her robotic repetition of “duty for Queen and country” haunting Ianto even now as he played the role of the confident yet unimposing minion set to due the director's bidding. He'd seen it often enough at Torchwood One (though, he took care to tone down the simpering, insincere flattery and pompous intellectualism) that it was quite easy to imitate. Jack lounged casually against the Information Desk, one hip gathering bacteria and mold and an elbow drawing dust circles to mark that he had been there, altogether unnecessary; Ianto doubted that many forgot an encounter with Jack, not even the dustbunnies.

“Jack, please. We’re on first name basis here, Ianto. Now, if you’ll come with me, I'll introduce you to the team.” Jack motioned his new employee to follow him through a door Ianto was fairly certain hadn't been open. Another method to throw him off, to unsettle him? He was unsettled enough by the contrasting offices and the fashion by which things were being handled -- there was little need to try harder.

“The interview, sir?” He had prepared for the interview, had been preparing since he had made the decision to transfer. After expecting and preparing, he was disappointed he wouldn't be able to demonstrate his hard work. He knew exactly how to respond to typical questions regarding skills, duties, temperament, knew precisely how to sound appropriately traumatized by the battle in London yet with the wits necessary to succeed at a new location. Ianto had even toyed with the notion of acting unsettled by the building itself, to react to the similarities in a hesitant-yet-stubborn fashion. Now, that idea seemed mockable given the complete dissimilarities between the two. Nothing was remotely similar, except for the name. Torchwood. There would always be that uniting factor.

Jack's look was inscrutable and Ianto nearly squirmed beneath the weight of it. Only his mother's insistent nattering kept him from looking away to focus on the blackened ecru splotch on the wall over Jack's shoulder. (He had been five, they were meeting the Queen and a party of international dignitaries. “Stand up straight,” she'd said, adjusting his tie while Elaine picked at a pink taffeta flower on her dress, “shoulders square. Don't chew your lip. Meet their eyes squarely when you shake their hand. No child of mine will appear weak.” That had been the last function Ianto and his sister had ever attended; Ianto wasn't sure why but it might have had something to do with the punch they'd drank -- they hadn't known it was spiked -- and the new stain on her Majesty's favorite silk stole.) The scolding paid off; Ianto merely waited until Jack spoke, which he did as Ianto watched in fascination -- hands on his hips, unreadable expression and a stance slightly shifted to the balls of his feet. Offensive skills honed by experience; Ianto wondered how many fights Jack had seen, how many he'd fought. “Why do you want to work with Torchwood Three?”

Check one off his mental list of prepared answers. “To protect Britain from dangerous alien entities and gather beneficial technology,” Ianto rattled off, the purpose of Torchwood ingrained during training.

“And what are your thoughts on rifts?”

The rapid-fire question and answering didn't throw Ianto, but the question itself did. He paused, taking a moment to form his answer carefully -- not that he believed his answer wrong or untruthful, but because the question deserved a respect and caution his answer should emulate. To the casual observer, a rift was no more than a word with a standard definition applying to things like relationships and the earth's crust. But to those who knew and understood (and few remained who truly did), there was an awe and fear associated with the word. It was a word Ianto would like to never hear again. “There are some things, sir, which should never be touched, much less toyed with.”

“Excellent. And unnecessary." Jack talked as he led them down a hallway to a stairwell, turning to look back at Ianto before descending. A wink partnered with a leer and Ianto learned how yet another thing differed from London. "You had me at the suit." Yvonne would never have said that, much less winked.

"But what about my qualities? My C.V.?" Ianto carried the document in the slim leather folder he'd purchased upon arriving in Cardiff. It matched the desk calendar, pen, and pencil set in ebony and silver, letter opener and paperweight waiting at his flat to adorn his new desk. They would appear remarkably out of place, if the Information Desk was any model. He chased after Jack, spinning round the stairs deceptively lit in bright fluorescence. Ianto didn't miss the irony and began questioning the logic of coming to Cardiff -- whether it might be as much a threat to him as London was. For as Torchwood One stretched towards the heavens, a gleaming Babelonian fortress reaching for the hands of God, Torchwood Three spiralled downward, descending into Hell. Perhaps he should have turned around at the Information Center.

Jack waved him off as a massive door rolled into the wall, permitting entrance into the facilities that were to be Ianto's new office. The man before him, who had so much spring in his step he fairly bounced, continued the quick pace and entered the cavernous room as though he were royalty with exciting news to tell the masses. Ianto would have dwelt on it more had he not been struck by the impressive sight of the interior of Torchwood Three. It was...expansive. And dirty. Pizza boxes were strewn around like a teenage boy's first flat, housing what certainly would be previously undiscovered single-celled lifeforms; paper coffee cups and mugs littered every available surface; a musty, mildew odor associated with underground wet rock permeated the entire space. Not quite as bad as the derelict Information Center, but close. At least the members of Torchwood Three had a little self-respect and cleaned on occasion -- Ianto spotted a soiled rag stashed on a rail and the place wasn't covered in grime. It just had a feeling of age. Of long service. Even the letters of Torchwood in tile on the wall were cracked, though whether that was due to shoddy craftsmanship or some aspect of time, Ianto wasn't sure and was rather afraid to ask.

He was so distracted by his surroundings, comparing every detail in a mental London/Cardiff/Pro/Con cross-matrix, that he wasn't aware of there being other staff on the platform they'd stepped onto. When he saw their eyes assessing the new face while Jack stood to his side, he couldn't help but feel a bit like a caged animal at the zoo. "Everyone, this is Ianto Jones. Ianto, this is Suzie. Owen. Miles. Wilson. Ianto joins us from Torchwood One."

"Oi, it's one of the lot who nearly destroyed London! I thought you liked Cardiff, Jack?" The man identified as Owen spun in his chair, slouched and sucking on a pen while he whined with counterfeit innocence, eliciting laughter from the one Jack had called Miles. Miles continued to snicker as he tapped away at his keyboard, eyes tracing multiple screens despite Owen's distraction. Computer tech and friends with Owen, Ianto noted, as it appeared he might encounter a bit of trouble from the sloucher. So long as Owen didn't interfere with his plans, he and his snickering sidekick would be easy to ignore.

Jack continued as though Owen had said nothing, which meant he was tolerated at the very least, if not encouraged, "Ianto will be taking management of the Information Desk. His duties will also include cleaning up around here, maybe a little filing, feeding Myfanwy and most importantly, making coffee as anything he makes will be better than the sludge Wilson brews."

"We have ourselves a tea-boy!" Owen crowed while Wilson muttered under his breath about Americans and their coffee. Ianto tried to process what Jack had said. Outrage, relief, and offense clashed while he maintained an outward appearance of complicity. It would do no good to show in any way he was affected by the announcement -- would only serve to give Owen more fodder to demonstrate why selective breeding should be employed. He met the Captain's eyes and in them he found a dare to argue, to challenge Jack's role assignment. And there was Jack's revenge for a direct order to hire one of Torchwood One. Didn't matter. Ianto would play along until it was no longer needed. Once he had Lisa back, they would leave. Leave and run from the disaster that was Torchwood and the office that governed them. Let them try to find Lisa and him, what with the training and skills they had, that Torchwood had provided them. They could disappear and his role as 'tea-boy' could be forgotten as easily as he would be by those who thought they knew him.

At least he was familiar with making coffee.

He gave a brief nod, signaling to Jack that he had won. Won by default, but won nonetheless. Jack smirked and rolled his shoulders back, chest puffing with pride he didn't deserve. Ianto wished to throttle him, but strangling the boss on the first day would not set the best tone for the duration of his employment. So Ianto just gave a passive smile while Jack preened and twisted the knife just a bit deeper into a heart numb since the battle in London. "You're the perfect man for the job, Ianto. Welcome to Torchwood Three."

***

Ms. White's unannounced visit to Torchwood Three caught everyone off-guard, though Ianto had been expecting it since his transfer. She would be curious why Cardiff of all places; she wasn't a fool and he was her son, if only a son by DNA. After London, he could begin to see why she wished to separate herself, work from family, at the cost of her family. Her office didn't lend itself well to safe harbor and home; she had been protecting them. Still didn't make it right, only seeing her sparingly during the two months of the year he and Elaine had traveled to London to stay with the nannies and have a dinner or two, touted as kids with potential but never her own. Calling her "mother" had been strictly forbidden; even now Ianto only called her that in mockery.

His father would tell grand tales of how they met - he'd been just minding his business on a road from Swansea when he'd come across this beautiful woman, hair the color of raven's wings spilling from a braid, using nothing more than a tree branch to fight off a pale blue creature of enormous size with horns growing from its nose the size of his forearm. She was shrieking, he said, cursing the creature for delaying her appointment. Far be it for him, a proud Jones, to stand aside while this fair lady became food for this unnatural creature's belly, so he took up his walking stick and ran at the beast with a bloodcurdling cry that would rival his most bellicose ancestors. Knocked flat on his arse, he was, thrown a distance by a massive fist, rolling on the ground and coming to rest against a lichen-covered boulder. Dazed and winded. he looked up to see the woman take her branch and shove it right through one of the creature's beady green eyes, spilling its blue blood to the green earth where a gnarled tree sprung up, branches twisted and reaching for the sky. "Never before had I seen a woman with such passion, such fight. Asked her to marry me right on the spot," Ianto's father said, smiling as he puffed a pipe which smelled of home, "didn't even know her name."

Of course, Ianto hardly believed a word of the story - he distinctly remembered the creature being purple with bulbous orange splotches and eye stalks and the ground had burned, lighting his mother's skirts on fire the first time he had been told the story. But it made for good nighttime stories, and made their mother more an epic brave warrior fighting for mankind, not a ghost of a woman who had abandoned her husband, son, and daughter.

Ianto stepped out slowly from the backroom, hand innocently following his path as he traced the desktop. He'd been preparing for this day, weighing his options; it had simply taken a while longer than he had calculated. Polite familiarity and respect, assume he'd seen her picture in London or been witness to one of her inspections. Lies and obfuscation, lessons learned at a very young age. "Ms. White, I presume? Welcome to Torchwood Three."

About halfway across the desk, fingertips still dancing across the surface, distracting, Ianto's thumb brushed the tiny alarm button hidden underneath to alert Jack both to the fact that he still breathed and of Ms. White and her legion of guardsmen. Having modified his original plan to accommodate his role within the Cardiff branch, Ianto had found it remarkably easy to fade back until the others barely remembered he was employed. He rarely was required to speak to anyone; most days conversation consisted of describing to elderly couples and women with children how to get to the National Museum and Art Gallery. He had spent six and a half days, four bottles of bleach, two scrub brushes, and nine rags disinfecting the Information Center, cleaning and dusting it to a respectable appearance. At least he no longer feared for his health. Or rats. Or, following replacement of the double-beam and a few other questionable planks, the building collapsing on top of him.

The purification of Torchwood Three continued down the hallway and into the bowels itself, though Ianto's dedication was delayed into the evening and early morning hours after Owen and Miles complained of the bleach fumes. He performed his Torchwood additional duties with a watchful silence, ignoring Owen's continued hazing and capturing elements of the day-to-day in the encrypted reports he submitted weekly as per Ms. White's orders. These reports were written with more than a modicum of discretion. Ianto filled them with enough to keep her entertained and curious, but left out what he believed she should never know. He would report on rift activity and the team's response, but neglect to include the blood he washed away from the pavement in quantities enough to land anyone else in the morgue while Jack just got up and walked away, never mentioning and no one else, apparently, noticing. Alien artifacts were recorded and others — those Ianto deemed far too powerful or dangerous for the Research and Resource Acquisition office to acquire — conveniently forgotten. He'd seen firsthand what the unknown could do in the control of those greedy to possess it; what they had done to Lisa was unforgivable and he would not allow it to happen again, not if he could stop them … well, stop them while he was around to care. Once Lisa was better, though, he didn't have to care any more. Just him, Lisa, and wherever they went, no responsibilities.

No Torchwood.

It was these same artifacts that Ianto had neglected to mention in his reports that he hoped Jack was tucking away in the secret vaults of Torchwood Three, hidden from the eyes of Ms. White while she and her team wound down the stairs. Jack was no fool; Ianto knew he didn't report to Ms. White as he was required. So long as he'd heard the alarm he would have stashed the most powerful of the lot. Ianto hoped. Otherwise questions might be asked that he wasn't prepared to answer quite yet.

There were no questions asked as they walked down the stairs; there was no conversation. Ianto took the stairs as slowly as could be taken without raising suspicion, his stomach knotting tighter with every step as he considered everything he hadn't put in his reports - from the alien tech to the coffee creamer. He had a possible escape route mapped, deeper into the hub, near where Lisa rested. There was a narrow pipe, unused and covered, which he could just squeeze through if he had to. Follow the pipe and it would lead to a network of tunnels beneath the city. He could run, he might even make it to the pipe without getting shot, stunned, or tackled. He'd disappear, then sneak back in and rescue Lisa who was resting comfortably in an unused room. It had been relatively simple getting her into the room - she had been so brave. Never uttered a complaint. There had only been one small incident which Wilson would never remember, but it was in his best interest. The poor man was a bit daft; whether that was a direct result of Torchwood Ianto wasn't sure, and he had grossly misinterpreted the situation.

Ianto reviewed the escape route as the hub door rolled open, unsure whether to be concerned or relieved when he saw Owen and Miles at their desks, and sorely wishing for an antacid. Suzie and Jack were talking in Jack's office, heatedly if their body posture was to be read correctly, and Wilson was playing with a device Ianto knew for certain to be an alien portable gaming console. Just another day in the office, it would appear. Appearances were confirmed when Owen spun at the sound of the door opening, spotting Ianto and the visitors, ignoring them in favor of his latest favorite 'joke'. "Tea-boy! Coffee's empty."

Years of training were the only things which held Ianto's tongue and prevented the rush of blood to his face, despising his shame in front of Ms. White as much as he despised Owen and his laughing idiot counterpart. The odds of the coffee pot actually being empty ran about even; generally if the pot was empty Owen had dumped the contents down the sink while Ianto watched. Ianto had hacked into Owen's personnel files with the main office after a particular bad day and discovered the root of the animosity: it wasn't Ianto so much as Torchwood One and there was really nothing Ianto could do in regards to Owen's resentment. Plus, so long as Owen was reinforcing the notion that Ianto was nobody to be bothered with, it eased Ianto's movements within the hub. If only he hadn't done so in front of her, though he had mentioned in his first report that his duties were more clerical than had been his previous role.

"I'll see to the coffee after I settle our visitors," Ianto acknowledged, ignoring Owen's smirk as he led Ms. White and the six men past the desks to the conference room. While for all appearances the hub looked like it usually did, Ianto did notice gaps in his quick inventory: small devices where larger tech had been set and larger tech shoved into smaller spaces. Jack had received his warning, then, and Ianto hoped the frantically working Miles (unusual in that Miles hardly ever worked) was erasing the footage capturing their explosion into activity. He even had his response prepared for later when Jack questioned how Ianto knew — "rifts, sir." Unscheduled but planned for, this inspection would play into Ianto's favor, loosen the collar and chain Jack kept him on. He needed access to the Archives to search for information for Lisa's cure, but Jack had yet to give him cause (and the passcode) to go into them. He had managed to bring Lisa and all the equipment into the hub, routinely run checks and perform therapy to prevent severe atrophy, and yet he couldn't get into the Archives. It would have been humorous, if Ianto hadn't been working on a schedule.

Ianto knocked on Jack's office door, opening it to interrupt his and Suzie's conversation, a staged debate as the points they were arguing had been decided weeks ago. "We have visitors, sir. They're waiting in the conference room." A curt nod from Jack and a wave at a stack of files - most coded as weevil encounters he noted - and Ianto returned to inform their "guests" that Jack was on his way and to provide them reading material until the captain arrived.

"You there." Ianto stopped his retreat, catching himself at the door with Jack in front of him, blocking his exit, and Ms. White calling to him from her seat at the conference table. He turned and placed his hands behind his back, waiting in trepidation as to what she was going to say, which could have been anything from "the reports you sent me failed to note this" to "this room is too dark, I would like some sunlight."

"Tea with honey. And some Turkish Delights. Go on then." And she dismissed him with a wave of her hand, never looking up from the report she was reading.

Score one for mother.

It wasn't as though he had been expecting to be coddled; their relationship was secret even from his personnel files. However, to be dismissed as unimportant so soon after Owen's latest humiliation ... stung. He had accepted the job, he'd stayed on when Jack relegated him to duties far below his training, but he'd not expected to be treated as such from someone who knew...someone...well, she'd never claimed maternal instincts and she certainly proved a point this round. Not to mention that finding the Turkish Delights he knew she preferred would require a few phone calls. That or face further derogation.

He smiled politely in response, pausing as he stepped around Jack to return to the Information Desk to call the growing list of gourmet food stores and import shops in Cardiff. She had particular tastes in Turkish Delights, it might prove a bit difficult to find a store selling some to her preference. He could go with the first he found, but would face further derogation if he returned with anything less than what she thought the best. "I will bring your coffee as well, sir." Ianto never looked away, eyes stubbornly focused on Jack's. He may have placed Ianto in this role for revenge, for his own comfort, for whatever reason Ianto had yet to determine, but Ianto knew it was only temporary. And he would be damned if Jack claimed any further part of Ianto's soul by taking his pride as well. He was more than just an errand boy, more than a coffee fetcher, more than the sometimes-son of a woman too blinded by her job to notice that's all she was. And the memory of her laughter was enough to remind him.

***

Two days after Ms. White left and Torchwood Three was still on edge. They had passed inspection (the first ever for Cardiff, to Ianto's surprise when he overheard Suzie and Wilson talking), but there was a jitteriness that lingered with the relief. She had found plenty to criticize, plenty to berate Jack and the rest of the team about, but nothing was ever found which hinted at the deception. The others, for their part, had stood up to her in ways Ianto found remarkable, given the air of command and fear she usually maintained. Never did they let slip what was really housed at Cardiff, hidden in secret vaults and trap doors, though Jack had borne the greatest of her ire and sheer determination to find something wrong with the branch.

The strain had gotten to them all, however. Jack had even chastised Owen for his irreverence despite the mutual dislike for the woman, steam let off but the fires were still stoked. Ianto knew this couldn't last, this tension strung tight between all the members of the Cardiff branch except for himself. He was still not truly a member, still a slight shade passing through doling out coffee and tea and food when necessary. He was exempt from the snapping and bickering, the elevated voices and barrage of cursing and insults. Owen had even been quiet around him lately, sulking in an unnerving hyper manner which never meant anything good.

Ianto had left early, that evening after Ms. White had returned to London. He'd left early and relegated cleaning up for the early hours of the morning before the others came in to work. No one tried to kill him on his way home, there were no more bugs hidden in his place then there had been when he'd left that morning (three - one in the kitchen light plate, one in the bedroom phone, and another in the living room, tucked into the remote control - had been there since two days following his arrival), and no one was waiting for him in a darkened room, ready to threaten him within a breath of his life. A good end to the day; he'd gone out to celebrate and was nearly late for work the following morning when he had to go home to change out of the clothes he'd worn to the clubs. He should have brought clothes with him, but at the time, drinking in relief had been the priority. Not that he believed anyone would have noticed if he were late, though they might have missed their coffee.

Although, that wasn't entirely accurate, Ianto corrected himself. When he had been occupied with various duties about the hub, he'd felt eyes upon him. He knew Jack was watching, arms crossed and head inclined as though attempting to batter down his mental defenses and read what Ianto was all about. It'd be a nice try, but Ianto felt comfortable that he'd read nothing, even if Jack could read minds. He had caught him in this stance a time or two in reflections and passing glances. Jack was curious, but he never spoke to him. Ianto was disappointed he never got to use his response to the 'why' question, but then, Jack never acted as Ianto expected him to. It kept him slightly off-kilter, always second-guessing his plans and secrecy.

And he still didn't have the passcodes for the Archives.

He knew he should have turned around when he heard the low rumbles of laughter, but the room was one of the few he'd yet to clean. And being one of Owen's rooms dedicated to research, it tended to accumulate trash faster than the doctor's desk. It was a long rectangular room, a spindle off the autopsy room. Ianto wondered what mind had designed the place with all its halls and great rooms and round spirals, but then, a mind who had envisioned a hub meters beneath the surface with an 'invisible lift' and a rift running through its core was probably not the most sane members of society and thus the subterranean castle architecture made a sort of sense. At the far end of the long room (designed initially as a lecture hall, Ianto thought), Owen and Miles sat hunched over Owen's desk, sniggering like madmen with nothing on their minds but trouble.

He should have turned around, let them be.

"Oi! Tea-boy! Come here. I dropped my cup on the floor, made a bit of a mess." And with that, Owen let his cup fall to the floor, spraying a pinwheel arc of dark mocha coffee over the floor and up onto the wall when it hit on its edge and bounced. This set Miles off again, peals of laughter bouncing off the rows of tall tables and stools in one of the few rooms which appeared pristine Torchwood One white. Hyenas were what they reminded Ianto of - laughing hyenas with a leader of the pack, though if Ianto remembered right, the alphas were female. Maybe more the males of the pack, lowest in the hierarchy and raving mad in this case.

He did turn around, retrieving the mop and bucket he'd left outside the door. Best not to encourage them. Miles was already shuffling off to the door as Ianto passed him, mop and half-full trashbag in hand, the mop bucket beside him as he steered it with the mop handle. The sense of peace he'd found after Ms. White had left was gone, fury and disgust replacing the calm. He longed to crack the handle over Owen's head, just for kicks, to see if it really was as hollow as it sounded. Miles was a close second; maybe he'd throw a stool after him, or hit him with the mop bucket. He had rather remarkable aim, he was fairly sure he could hit the retreating back. But he had more than himself to consider, and that quickly dampened any flare of temper he might have had at the continued bullying. Instead, Ianto pushed the bucket along and focused on how best to clean up the mess without the mocha coffee staining the wall or the floor. He might actually have to return to the storage closet, get some bleach. Would piss off Owen, all the more reason to use bleach, but it was probably the best he had that might actually take the stains out.

Ianto was nearly upon the mess on the floor, a stool between he and Owen, when he noticed movement. Owen was far closer than he had been. The doctor had sprayed himself with something that made Ianto sneeze, three times he sneezed before the tickling in his nose stopped and he could stand straight. The room took a strange focus, in fact, the focal point was Owen and everything else seemed to move around him. It was incredibly disorienting, but at the same time an exhilarating lust was overriding everything. The disorientation, the spinning, his lips weren't full, but he wondered at the same time if for all the talking and insults if that wasn't masking something greater, something animal and fuck those lips -

"Miles? You getting this? You want me, don't you Ianto. Can't hardly keep your hands off me, you lecherous bloody tea-boy. I bet all you want to do is strip me down and have a shag, isn't it?"

It was true, true and so shallow when Owen said it but it was all Ianto could think about. As much as it disgusted him, Ianto wanted him. He lurched forward, fighting against a small corner of his mind that kept shouting that it was Owen for fuck's sake and he stopped himself, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, minds of their own threatening to grab the lapels of the white lab coat and throw him against the wall, kissing those lips until they were puffed and bruised, trailing down until he buried his face against Owen's neck, licking and kissing and drowning in his scent. He felt drunk, he felt high, and he'd never felt so alive in his life, not even during his teens when wanking took a near constant presence. He wanted nothing more than to -

God, no, this was Owen with whom he wanted to ignore all propriety and decorum, wanted to shag against one of the lab tables until Owen came with Ianto's name on his lips. His fingers tangled in his suit coat, holding himself back from both jumping Owen and ignoring all self-preservation and wanking in the middle of the lab. If he didn't...fuck, he was probably going to come in his pants just from the smell of Owen. He was dimly aware of background noise - sound garbled from traveling through water is what it was, so slow while time raced around the rich, sharp, and all-edges scent of Owen (why had he never noticed before?) as it wafted past, straight-lining to his cock and drawing his head with it to follow. The air moved, Owen moved. Ianto needed to follow, even if he didn't allow himself to touch since it was Owen, he could just smell, strip down out of these hot clothes and jerk himself off quickly and maybe he could -

A navy blue wall planted itself between Ianto and the trail he was following ... someone's...he couldn't remember but he was following something and now something was in his way. Arousal was making him light-headed, or maybe it was the pressure against his chest; he'd never felt like this before and it was suffocating. He pushed out, pushed at the wall and it took a moment to realize it was chuckling - the navy blue wall was chuckling and loosening his tie. He'd forgotten about the tie which was probably the source of the strangled feeling, there was a hand on his chest and it belonged to someone...he couldn't quite place it ... it wasn't the scent that he was following but God the wall smelled nearly as good. Maybe better.

Laughter again, more pleasant on the ears than hyena laughter and fuck if everything didn't just feel more, the sounds of laughter and the smells and the brilliant navy blue which held the scent of the air, dark and cloying and at the same time fresh and clear like rain as the world poured around him, pulling and pushing him. A sharp sound not far from Ianto's eyes drew his complete attention, movement clarifying until he realized a finger was waving back and forth like a pendulum.

"-nto. You with me here? Or are you still with the hyenas?"

Ianto nodded, then shook his head, not sure which question he was supposed to be answering while the finger waved in front of his eyes, barely resisting the urge to capture the digit between his lips and suck. He licked his lips instead, biting with enough pressure to bring a small measure of clarity cutting through the cloud of want. He could hardly breathe, but he didn't want to let go of the shirt he was touching, navy blue, the tight cotton weave feeling like mountains and valleys beneath his fingers. He knew who it was, he knew the name, different from the one who had been in the room before.

"Jack."

"Yes. Ian-Ianto. Listen to me." The wall shifted away from his touch, Ianto absently realized the wall was actually Jack's chest, which he'd been fondling and stroking while touch was so real. "Ianto, are you listening?"

Nodding again, Ianto leaned forward until his nose touched the crook of Jack's neck, inhaling deeply. He couldn't get enough, couldn't quit even though the same corner of his mind which had cried protest to the one before was now calling out just as loud that this was his boss he was smelling.

"Yes, I am. Do you understand what happened?"

Humming his agreement, Ianto gave in and licked the skin closest to his lips, tasting the smell as much as he was feeling it. He knew what it was, knew what Owen (Owen!) had been studying. Alien tech, potency undetermined, he'd read ... something ... "Pheromones." And truthfully, Ianto didn't care what Owen had been studying, there was warmth beneath his touch and he'd found delicious solid pressure to rub his cock against - would feel better without clothing but this slow smooth slide was finally giving him what he wanted, what he'd been wanting since...he couldn't remember when but now it was all he could remember ever desiring.

"Good. I'm going to help you take the edge off, okay?"

Ianto wanted nothing more than pants off, he didn't care about edges or help, he could take his pants off himself and get that skin contact he was craving, had been craving for so long he couldn't remember a time when he wasn't craving, lusting. His skin was crawling with want to touch and the need to be touched and there was laughter again but now hands were pushing away his own, struggling as they were with his belt which had twisted itself in knots and refused to open and god, he was going to come in his pants if he didn't hurry, didn't move faster cause he needed to touch.

One of his hands - his right hand, he used that hand to wank and why was it ... something was holding back and cool air and freedom were so overpowering Ianto could hear nothing but the blood rushing in his ears, the sounds of his own heart thrumming in his skull as his cock was wrapped in wet heat nearly buckling him if not for something hard supporting him. So hot, a fast slick slide and Lisa was glistening with sweat as she rode him, hands cuffed to the bed he couldn't touch but she was amazing, back arched and head thrown back. He could see a rivulet of sweat running between her breasts as she rose on her thighs and sank back down, slow steady heat and he couldn't touch, couldn't move, just let her take him as he begged her to move, pleaded even though she laughed, her laughter echoing through her body, trembling god this was a dream she wasn't here, she couldn't be here, it'd been so long but so hot, fire sliding over his cock so good, he needed this -

Too soon and he was coming; he felt it down to his toes and in the tips of his hair and even if it was only a dream it was his dream and Lisa was there, she was there as he sank deep inside her, coming with a cry he knew would be lost when he woke. It wasn't fair, the dreams were over so soon and he was left alone in a cold bed in a cold room and an even colder flat, beauty and warmth gone. He clung to this one, clutched as tight as he could as he felt himself sink into the bedding, hands free but no energy to move as he felt Lisa leaving him, he was sinking faster and faster with nothing to hold on to and he couldn't fight back the powers that pulled her away from him as quickly as he was falling, whisking her away to another time, another place, another dream to haunt him when he woke.

Ianto woke with a start, cold burning through half of him like running glacier water while the other half burned hot. He pulled the warmth tighter around him, hoping to save some of it before it bled off.

"Sleeping beauty awakes."

Groggy and more than a little confused, Ianto opened his eyes, seeing nothing but metal pegs in front of him. Rolling his head, his eyes traveled up the stool to find Jack staring back, elbows resting on his knees. "What..." And Ianto remembered what happened, small portions, flickering across his mind, Owen and navy blue cloth and ...

"Yes, I did. That floor can't be comfortable."

He could feel his face flame scarlet, no control and too flustered to care as he shifted around, noting without drawing too much attention that his pants were zipped, his belt buckled. Had he really? He had...for the first time since he'd transferred he found he couldn't look Jack in the eyes, and that was nearly as disheartening as knowing he'd humped the leg of his boss while hyped on alien pheromones to get off when his boss blew him. It was ....mortifying.

"My apologies, sir, I shouldn't -" He was lifted by the elbow off the floor and steadied with an even hand, quickly backing away when he had his feet under him.

"Go home, Ianto. Go home and sleep it off. You'll feel better in the morning and then you can come to work and tell me what happened."

"He didn't mean..." Jack was silent as Ianto's sentence trailed off, and Ianto found himself forced to look at the man (his boss) who had just ... at least he didn't really remember that portion of it. Or maybe he wished he would, those would be better than the torturous reminders of what he lost when Lisa was injured. But he was working on that. Ianto straightened with that thought, knowing the dreams would become real, soon, while he worked his tie back into place. Straight lines, crisp formality, his cold comfort which steadied him each time. "He was studying the potency of the substance. He had no idea it was this strong. I've seen stranger things," he added, almost as an afterthought.

Jack looked like he was going to argue, but didn't, helping Ianto straighten the lay of his suit coat. "I'll speak with him."

"Not necessary, sir." Ianto smoothed out the sides of his suit where his fingers had irreparably wrinkled the fine cloth. "I know where he stores the laxatives."

Jack's laughter filled the room and for a moment Ianto almost felt like part of Torchwood Three. But that was dangerous, it was there as long as he needed it and he couldn't allow himself to feel connected. Not again. So with a smile he didn't feel, Ianto collected himself, left the mop and bucket behind, and exited the room as he had entered.

***

Preliminary lab results indicate Specimen #056-J24, alien pheromone of unknown origins, chemically metamorphs to mimic pheromones produced by subject. #056-J24 exhibits a potency exceeding 200% occurring naturally. No known side effects. Specimen appears a nuisance, but not a particularly viable threat.

Funds request form for Turkish Delights filed under 'Miscellaneous: Toiletries.'

Ianto tapped the stylus against the PDA screen, saving and encrypting the latest section of his weekly report to Ms. White. It was a risk, he knew, working on his report during Torchwood hours, but the Information Center was dreadfully slow this week, he was avoiding the Hub, and he had delayed writing this report until the last possible moment. He wasn't one to procrastinate, but he would be the first to admit he was not in top form.

He hadn't told Lisa what had happened. Contrary to the reports he filed with Ms. White, he usually told Lisa everything about Torchwood, from Suzie's change in shampoo (lilac now) to Wilson's preferred shirt color (pale green, like diluted grass, every shirt a variation of the color - a possible sign of compulsive obsession but Ianto wasn't mentioning that in his report either). He told her when Owen and Suzie started their affair. And when it ended (23 days, four encounters, could have been more but Ianto didn't believe Owen could manage beyond six). Jack went to the surface at 8:00am and 8:00pm every day (sometimes more often, sometimes only the twice) and stood atop a high point staring at the morning sky. (Looking for or awaiting an encounter? Or perhaps contemplating the efficiency of a death from a vaulted vantage and how long it would take Ianto to clean that mess up?) He even told her each time Jack had died. He told Lisa everything Torchwood.

He couldn't tell her what happened.

Ianto supposed he was being ridiculous. After all, the field agents in London had regaled him with tales that had seemed quite fanciful and made up at the time: situations when members of the team had been hit by a rogue alien beam which ended in an orgy, or when two men had stepped into a field emitted by a handheld computer (initially described by the one they were pursuing as an alien ovulation calendar) and one of them had ended up pregnant (birthed a healthy little baby with pink skin and translucent airy hair - apparently more than two sets of genes were combined; the happy couple and kid lived outside London last Ianto knew) and countless other times the agents had encountered alien devices, gizmos, and doo-hickeys which had resulted in sex - sometimes with new appendages and abilities, sometimes with less (forced blindness through temporary disconnect of the optical nerve, however, was not something he'd prefer to attempt). He had gotten away lucky, all things considered. For a moment that first night, though, Ianto had panicked and truly hoped that there were indeed no side effects from the pheromone, no weird transference and combining of DNA, as a baby would put a severe kink in his plans. His rational side eventually allayed his fears - it was highly improbable as he'd been on the receiving end of a blowjob - though he didn't sleep at all that night (and he would never admit to slouching on the sofa watching EastEnders reruns and occasionally poking his belly, trying to determine if an unusual bump had formed).

Logically, it was just another day, another experience at Torchwood. He knew what existed; he knew more than most. There was no reason why what happened should come as any shock or stress. Pragmatic and detached, he had hacked into Miles' computer, too easily done, Ianto believed, for being the supposed computer technician Miles was, and erased the video Miles had recorded. Erased it from Owen's computer as well, and Owen's home computer. And the flashdrive. But not before watching, driven by a masochist's curiosity to see what he only vaguely remembered in Technicolor clips of dream. The video was interrupted by Jack's arrival, camera hastily tucked away but still filming, capturing the audio of Jack's demands for answers and orders for Owen to leave. Ianto should have felt relieved; he did, in part. Imagining what he might have done to Owen was enough to leave him sick, both from a moral vantage and the fact that it was Owen and who knew what blackmailing and bullying would have ensued. The small portion of his subconscious which he denied existence felt a wash of warmth - Ianto knew Jack went to lengths to protect his team and this gave that tiny voice a sense of belonging. Which he quickly stomped out.

Shame, and a fear that Owen may have considered the notion as well, caused Ianto to bring up the CCTV of the lab, finding the proper date and time. Jack's arrival was captured there, as were Ianto's struggles to not advance on Owen. Images matched the audio Miles had recorded - Jack looked almost angry - and then Owen fled out the door. The audio had stopped there, but the images on the CCTV kept going as Ianto saw himself try to follow but had been blocked by Jack. The navy blue wall made sense, then, Jack's shirt dark on the footage. Ianto had his finger on the key to stop playback, but a twisted fascination pushed him to know. He had to see. He didn't want to consider what kind of perversion drove him but he couldn't stop watching, especially if Owen had gotten to the video first. He had to know. Ianto drew up when Jack's eyes locked on his, the man's intensity startling him. For a moment, Ianto forgot that he wasn't watching live feed. Jack's arms encircled himself in the footage, hands coming together behind Ianto's head. Ianto was confused as to what he was seeing. It wasn't an embrace - Jack was hardly touching him - but then the screen went to fuzz, the images stopped.

Jack had blocked the CCTV camera.

Ianto sat back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face before deleting the CCTV footage and running a search for it on Miles and Owen's computers. Jack had stopped the camera. Even now, staring absently at his PDA, one ear to the door for visitors to the Information Center, Ianto was relieved and frustrated. As much as he wanted to know exactly what happened, he didn't want to know and he definitely didn't need it recorded. Common sense dictated it was to protect Jack from potential fallout as much as to spare Ianto humiliation. But it unnerved Ianto all the same, throwing off his careful control and awareness. Things didn't quite match what he believed truth, what he had observed, read, heard. The combination of drug, sex, and Jack were wrecking havoc on his mind and threatening his plans. What he didn't understand was a potential threat; he didn't understand Jack's motivations, he didn't understand his actions. Most importantly, Ianto didn't understand why he himself should care. It was just a blowjob when he could have done something either horrible or embarrassing or both to Owen. It hadn't revealed his plans, he hadn't been fired, he wasn't banished from Torchwood for failing to maintain control and accosting his boss. Everything was as it should be.

But it wasn't. And he couldn't tell Lisa.

"Ianto! You're with me."

Ianto's head jerked up; he'd been so focused on his PDA's home screen that he hadn't noticed anyone enter the Information Center from the Hub. Miles and Owen were bickering over football statistics (both were invariably wrong, and he was sure neither could pass basic maths, much less statistics from the numbers they were throwing about). Owen shot him a look as he passed; Ianto wasn't sure how to decipher it, but at the present moment he wasn't inclined to give Owen the time nor the effort. Suzie and Wilson followed, Wilson wearing a tropical shirt with splashes of diluted grass green flowers. "Sir?"

Jack stood near the desk, leaning hip and elbow against it much as the first time they'd met, though on a far cleaner surface. He wasn't smiling, in fact, his face was alarmingly serious. "You're coming with me," he repeated, slowly, as though Ianto failed to understand English the first time he spoke the words.

His heart stopped, Ianto was fairly certain, in that moment. He glanced at his PDA; it was on his home screen, but Jack must have hacked in. Or maybe zoomed in on his screen while he was sketching his report. Or had somehow gained access to his home computer. Jack knew. It would explain why the others were leaving on their own. Jack didn't want any witnesses. The method of Jack's dispatch wasn't apparent, not from what Ianto had witnessed, so whether he was to be shot or drowned in the bay...or maybe drawn and quartered and sent to Ms. White in pieces would be more Jack's style and retribution. Owen knew. He knew when he returned that Ianto wouldn't be there. The others, they'd never really cared if he'd existed so they wouldn't care if he was there or not, but Owen knew. He'd be pleased, then, though he would have to find a new source of amusement for himself and Miles. "Of course, sir."

There was little point in gathering his belongings, so he left his PDA with his briefcase; his panicked mind was already planning for Lisa. Maybe before Jack got rid of him, he could plead Lisa's case. Another option depended on method, but it was possible Ianto could overtake Jack. He knew how to fight; he'd received all the training at London, plus more from sheer boredom in the summer months when he was young. Maybe it wasn't a lost cause. He'd have to strike before Jack, but if Jack were to go for his gun, there was the chance Ianto could escape and save Lisa.

He walked with Jack; neither of them spoke, Jack simply walked with his hands in his pockets, long coat billowing behind him in the wind. It would have been a serene moment, had Ianto not been approaching every step as another avenue for escape, another lost. How he could have been so careless as to be discovered Ianto wasn't certain, but would Jack really kill someone working for Ms. White? That would bring the wrath of Torchwood and the Avalon project down on one's self and one's team. There was no escaping those combined efforts. He knew he was, at most, guilty of spying on his boss, but he had been doing Jack a small favor by not reporting everything he learned. He had even warned him of Ms. White's arrival at Torchwood Three. He owed Ianto at least to take care of Lisa, even if Jack killed him for the betrayal. A small source of peace, but Ianto felt less panicked as they entered Starbucks; one last coffee, it would seem. At least Jack didn't try to make it - his coffee was even worse than Wilson's.

Coffee in hand, Ianto followed Jack to a quiet patio table away from the other customers. A pill bottle was set in front of him once they had both seated. Ianto could do nothing more than stare at it, trying as he could to argue against what he was seeing, but it was there in front of him and it made absolutely no sense. It was a bottle of Retcon. Not poison, not a gun to his head, not a strong sedative to knock him out so he could be thrown off a pier. It was Retcon.

"Two should do it." Jack nudged the bottle closer to him, but Ianto couldn't move, couldn't even summon the courage to flee to save Lisa if he had to.

Two? For starters, that wouldn't kill him. And it wasn't nearly enough to wipe out his knowledge of Torchwood. He hadn't been kidding himself when he believed it impossible for that to ever work. He continued to stare at the bottle; he couldn't even breathe properly for all his heart had swam to his throat and lodged itself there, thumping in tempo to the rush in his ears. Wouldn't quite do to pass out in front of his boss when facing a bottle of Retcon but he couldn't apply reason to what he was seeing.

"I don't typically encourage my employees or my partners to self-medicate but I'm feeling particularly generous today."

He quickly did the math, calculating dosage and time. Oh, god. He was giving Ianto an out.

Ianto set his coffee on the table, afraid his hands shaking with adrenaline and relief would spill it on his suit; coffee was a trial to remove. Jack was giving him an out. He could forget that scene in the lab had ever happened, barring a trigger, forget Owen, forget everything about that day. And the stress since then. He didn't know about Lisa, didn't know about Ms. White, didn't know anything except that day. Ianto's breath hitched before he finally caught it, exhaling slowly and forestalling hyperventilation or laughter, both of which tickled at the edges of his vision, beckoning with tempting dances of oblivion. It'd be so easy just to forget and return to his life the way it was, pieces stacked carefully in a balanced Jenga tower instead of the wobbly, insecure structure it currently was. A stable view, every portion of his plans in place and unquestioned, his outlook favorable and uncomplicated. It was deliciously tempting.

And at the same time, he didn't want it. For the same reason he couldn't tell Lisa.

He took his time, minutes spent deliberating while Jack watched, the serious, passive expression never leaving his face. The choice was Ianto's. Jack wouldn't make it for him; for that, Ianto appreciated and was forced to slightly alter his perception of his employer. Jack, Casanova and heartbreaker, would allow him to forget. And having that choice in a world where Ianto rarely possessed one, was as unnerving as failure to understand yet refreshing as clean sheets, tucked with tight corners and surface firm, lying atop them and smelling the subtle scent of detergent as one was lulled to sleep by their warmth.

He raised his coffee with two hands so as not to spill, taking a deliberate sip of cooled unadulterated coffee before responding. "That won't be necessary, sir."

"Good." Jack's expression transformed instantly into one of the more familiar full-toothed smiles, swiping the pills from the table and shoving them into a coat pocket before Ianto had a chance to argue or change his mind. Not that he would change his mind, but Jack apparently believed it still possible. Ianto felt reinforced, supported by that smile; he felt like he'd passed some form of test, though what the subject was he wasn't sure and quite frankly didn't care. It was stupid and reckless but he indulged, sucked into the black hole of emotion that was Captain Jack Harkness.

He wasn't going to die today; Lisa was safe.

The relief made him giddy, made him feel like dancing if only there were four walls, dim lighting, intoxicated people who didn't give a damn who you were, and music. He certainly wouldn't dance in front of his boss, but he did smile, feeling his face crack as though it had been permanently set into polite indifference; as Ianto reflected, it probably had. Smiling felt as odd as getting blown by his boss. He supposed it could be worse; he might have laughed.

"Ianto Jones smiles. What's next? Jeans? T-shirt? I have to admit, I'd miss the suits but keep smiling and I'd allow it." Jack relaxed into his chair, looking like he was enjoying the coffee instead of using it as a tool of distraction.

"Careful, sir. That qualifies as sexual harassment." Ianto hid the smile encouraged by Jack's hearty laughter behind his coffee cup; twice in one day was far too often. He had responsibilities. Comfort and ease got in the way of responsibilities, though it may allow him access to those codes quicker. Not being at odds with Jack definitely felt better, at any rate, with far less fear of reprise or dismissal.

Their coffees gone, Ianto gathered their cups and threw them in the bins. They didn't talk much between them, but then there really wasn't much to talk about. Jack threw out a few work questions, thanked him for warning of Ms. White. Ianto didn't preen so much as nod in acknowledgment during their leisurely stroll back to the Hub. No longer searching for escape paths, he actually enjoyed the activity. Too often he was speeding to a certain location in search of some commodity. This time, he took his time and looked about, responding as necessary to Jack's conversation. Eventually, however, the air grew tense again, thick with an anticipatory dread and polite curiosity, and Ianto feared what would be said next.

"Who's Li-"

Jack's first serious question of the day was never voiced, at least not fully, for which Ianto was eternally grateful to whatever deity had intervened. So he had said something he shouldn't have the other day. He'd owe someone in karma later, but at the moment he had an armful of child to concern himself with, surprised as Jack was by the collision. The force of the impact had nearly upended him, but Ianto quickly regained his balance by backpedaling a few steps (playtime with his nephews had given him ample practice), arms instinctively dropping to protect the child. She wasn't much older than seven, maybe eight, just a wisp of a thing, tiny shoulders trembling as she gasped for air. Of course with kids, Ianto knew that could be deceiving - they gulped air like they'd run a marathon after drinking a glass of milk.

"Ianto? Keeping secrets from me?" Jack was bemused, arms crossed in a confident pose like he'd said the funniest thing since the invention of the hula hoop. Ianto nearly choked on his next breath. The notion of secrets far too true, but none of them involved children of his own creation (so long as the pheromones were strictly pheromones).

Ianto chose to ignore Jack; the question didn't even merit a response. Instead he focused on the girl still glued to his waist, arms tightly wrapped around and face planted in his hip. He carefully pried himself away, folding himself in thirds as he squatted down to be more on her height and, he hoped, far less scary. "Where's you mum, darling?" He could hear Jack's snicker; Ianto was aware that demonstrating the 'softer side of Ianto' with the kid was probably even more amusing to Jack, but he didn't care. The girl was frightened; he didn't need to be cruel. Besides, his nephews liked him - soft side and all - and that was far more important to Ianto than any snickering Captain.

He brushed aside the hair sticking to her face, a thin veil of long tresses a shade lighter than the perfect cup of espresso color of her wide eyes. Scared to the point of tears, which he carefully brushed aside as well. Was most likely separated from her parents at one of the shops; it was a busy day on the streets of Cardiff and Ianto had seen it happen before when something shiny popped up to distract the kid. Worried the parents nearly as much, if not more, than it worried the child, typically. He'd been frantic when he had lost sight of Bryce while watching the twins. Bryce of course was laughing happily while a kind storekeep entertained him with a toy and waited for the 'parent' to arrive. And arrive Ianto did, Gareth crying as he clung to Ianto's shoulder as he felt the panic radiating from his uncle. That had been a miserable day - Ianto swore to Elaine he was never taking the boys out again, and she just laughed and called him the best uncle the boys could have and to stuff it and go take them their snack.

Calmly, Ianto glanced up at Jack and rolled his eyes as the man smirked, enjoying that it was Ianto dealing with the child, not himself, Ianto assumed. Somehow, he found it all together unsurprising. For all the purported care for the 21st century, Jack seemed remarkably detached. "Sir, if you wouldn't mind contacting the -"

Ianto stopped himself, calm devolving quickly into a deep-rooted fear which swam in his gut like a boulder. He tucked the hair behind the girl's ears, getting a good look at her face, ignoring Jack's repeated calls of "Ianto?" as he paged through his mental picture book. "Rani?" He sincerely hoped that he was wrong, that her name wasn't Rani, because an alone-and-in-tears Rani would be a very, very bad thing. But he knew; he never forgot a face, even if that face had been a year or two younger at the time. He knew with a despairing certainty who the little girl was and knew with an equal fear that she should not be alone.

This was why Avalon existed.

He touched her chin, drawing her eyes so they were on level with his. She was so scared. "Rani Tapadia?" She didn't move, she knew better than to respond to the question and it sickened Ianto when he realized she probably thought he was testing her. Slowly, beckoning her forward as he leaned closer, whispering in her ear low enough so only she could hear (not even Jack with the seemingly long-ears should hear this): "the Isle of Apples." The wide eyes grew a fraction larger in surprise before the dam burst, a mixture of Hindi and English spilling over him so quickly he only picked up a word or two in either language. Jack was staring at him with an equal surprise, touched by a shade of confusion and while he was deciphering blurred seven-year old Hindi English, Ianto felt a small victory. He had confused Jack. About time the man was put off-balance as much as he put others.

"Rani, Rani slow down." Dead. Ran. Lost. The jumbled words kept coming, repeated in two languages at mixed intervals and Ianto knew they didn't have much time. He tried to look about, look for anything to run from, anywhere to hide until he could contact Avalon, and tried as much as he could not let any of his fear bleed over into the terrified child. "Rani, where is your -"

"Oh, my dear, there you are!"

Ianto pivoted on his toes, warily eyeing the blonde woman who sprinted down the sidewalk (in high heels - how is that accomplished?). She appeared unarmed, though Ianto knew that looks could be deceiving. And with Avalon, no one was to be trusted. Jack was already charming the woman, who claimed to be Rani's adoptive mother who'd lost sight of her daughter on the busy streets and was so relieved they had found her, flirting and laughing all the while.

Ianto didn't buy the story; never even considered believing it. Rani clung to him as he straightened, standing as tall as he could while keeping a hand on the girl's shoulder to comfort her as well as bolster himself.

"Ianto, hand the child over to the nice woman." Jack spoke slowly, a bit patronizing, but he'd made the request a few times. Now it sounded more an order and Ianto was going to ignore that, too. His grip tightened just a bit on Rani's shoulder, hopefully reflecting his intent not to hand her over to the woman who definitely was not her mother. Avalon didn't work like that. The mother and father were always the parents, that never changed. No one was adopted. If their parents were deceased, the children became wards of Avalon until adulthood. Avalon didn't work like that.

He kept reaffirming his beliefs in the system his mother governed. She had abandoned he and his sister as children in favor of the children of the Avalon project, she wouldn't have changed it so drastically. His panic growing, Ianto watched the strange woman - he didn't recognize her, he didn't know her from the other Guardians. He knew Rani, though. He recognized her and if her Guardian was dead, he had no alternative.

"No."

"No? This is her mother." Jack stressed the word 'mother' as he advanced on Ianto, even as Ianto felt relieved that his boss was unknowingly separating himself from the dangerous situation. He couldn't tell Jack what was going on, but he could certainly refuse an order. Jack eyed the two of them, the strange woman and Ianto, the proverbial light finally dawning by the change in his stature that more existed than what he had initially believed. "Ianto? Mind telling me what's going on?"

Ianto ignored him; he couldn't answer. Not that he didn't want to answer, but it was Avalon. He couldn't speak no matter if Jack were truly alien and not even from this time. Instead he observed the surroundings: two men approaching Jack from behind, suit jackets hiding what Ianto believed to be a small armory. The woman still hadn't moved, all blonde and beautiful and dressed in Armani, if his eyes didn't mistake him. And hiding at least two weapons, one in an ankle holster above the exceedingly ridiculous high heels and one at her side, covered by her jacket. Two more ways the situation could end poorly for him, Jack would at least heal and Rani would not be harmed. And for a while Ianto had considered the notion his death would come by Jack's hand. He might've laughed, if not for the severity of the woman's falling smile.

"Ianto?" Jack's voice was sharp, his tone losing its casual confident cool as he seemed to descend into the same state Ianto found himself. Which was good, there needed to be more than one person concerned about the situation.

"Where is her Guardian?" Ianto directed his question at the woman. Rani's tensing body, her hand twisting into the fabric of his pants, was all Ianto needed. He pushed the girl behind him, praying to whatever deity had intervened earlier that day for another moment of protection; he didn't have eyes at the back of his head. If there was someone coming up from behind, they were all lost. "What is the code?"

Ianto's demand was met with the barrel of a gun pulled from beneath the woman's jacket. His trainer from London, Sue Pinkerton, would have been proud of the initial observation if she had survived the battle. But she was lost and so were they, from the sounds of guns cocking at his left where Jack stood. The men in dark suits had pulled portions of the armory they carried, it would seem.

There was no way to get Rani out of this; Ianto had calculated the odds and found them devastatingly bleak. He wondered if the Guardian had even been given time to come to those same conclusions, or if they had been blissfully unaware.

"Hand her over and I won't kill your friend."

Friend might be a misnomer and Jack for all observations and reason couldn't be killed, but Ianto still felt a pang of regret. It felt like betrayal - betrayal of a sort different to the information gathering Ianto was conducting for Ms. White, even if Ianto believed Jack wouldn't allow the child to be turned over at this point either. This actually hurt. Jack was innocent, he shouldn't have been involved. He knew nothing of Avalon, despite his boasting of being above and beyond all things government and military-related. There were some levels of security that even he didn't possess, and for that, Ianto truly did feel his next words. "I'm sorry, Jack."

Ianto had never had the vantage point of viewing the barrel of a gun as it was fired, and he really could have done without the knowledge. In fact, he would have been content to live out his entire life always wondering, the curiosity never quenched. Content as he was, he was now force-fed the knowledge. He knew that he saw movement, saw the bullet a fraction of a microsecond before he heard it at this distance, and felt pain in tune with the jarring impact and pull like the jerk of a marionette string connected to the earth. He knew, despite never wishing the wisdom. He knew just as certainly that Jack was supposed to have been killed, not him, and that Lisa was lost, for he really was meant to die that day.

***
Blurred shades of brown tickled his nose and there was an uncomfortable, but not unpleasant, warmth in his chest. Breathing hurt and panic spun out of control when things wouldn't work like they should. He couldn't breathe, there was nothing there to breathe with. A familiar touch danced across his mind. He couldn't place it, but it told him to be at peace, to sleep.

He listened.

***
Ianto awoke, this time to no warmth, but no fear. He could breathe and he took desperate lung-fulls just to make sure he was prepared in case he couldn't breathe again. He remembered that, if nothing else. Pain and then nothing and the moment of awareness that he couldn't breathe. His eyes worked, if not a bit hazy and slow to focus, shapes coming to focus, the first of which being a startling shade of pale blue rings. Blue the color of a spring early morning in a cloud-less sky, that sharp crystal pale blue both breathtaking and awe-inspiring for all that one stares and loses their identity in the infinite vastness that blankets and protects.

He knew that shade; he knew those rings. It just seemed to take a moment for him to place them.

"Jean-Luc."

Spots moved - freckles - and slowly the picture dropped from kaleidoscope to focused, a sheath of dark hair moving backwards connected to a wide smile. "Ianto. Sight better than last time you woke. How does it feel to regain your foothold in the land of the living?"

The question triggered a memory, Ianto's frustration with a stubborn consciousness irritating him far more than it ought. Rani. He sat up and looked about, he knew how he lived, but he didn't see her. He knew she was part of Avalon, he knew her face. A long, slender finger pointed to Ianto's legs where a mass of long brown hair covered the figure clinging to his shins, fast asleep but cutting off the circulation in his feet. He didn't have the heart to move her.

"She's fine, just catching a rest before we move on. Tired herself out saving your sorry arse."

That reminder had Ianto throwing a hand to his chest, feeling the ruin of his suit but no gauze, no tape, just whole skin and, more importantly, no bullet hole. A look about found Jack standing with Stephen, looking healthy and whole while next to them three bodies were being hefted into a white van.

"Friend or foe?"

Ianto was confused by the question never voiced, swirling about his mind like liquid raspberry swirling into vanilla milkshake. The body bags? They'd shot him, for fuck's sake. They weren't exactly what he'd call friends. Quiet laughter like cool water calmed him, smoothing the rough edges and harsh swirling until there was almost peace within his own mind.

"The man, Jack Harkness. Is he a threat?"

Finally understanding what Jean-Luc was asking, but not understanding intent, Ianto allowed his general impressions of Jack rest in his public mind. Not all his barriers were currently holding, but some were. The important ones were.

In return for the impressions, Ianto's generic 'I don't know what you're asking for but here' response, he was hit by a torrent of memories, images, and feelings flashing past him quicker than he could catalog even as he experienced everything. He saw himself shot, a kill shot (the lady had good aim, it seemed), and he had gone down. The woman was tackled by a blur at the same time as the two men guarding Jack dropped like stones, never making a sound or even moving on the triggers of their guns. Ianto recognized that handiwork and dangled a compliment for Jean-Luc, impressed as ever by the man's talent. There was a reason the man provided all security for Ms. White. And as a Grade 1, there were few who could match him. There wasn't a better friend to have.

Rani had fallen on top of him - not injured but already working her magic, healing him, bringing him back. The brown hair tickled his nose. She was going to be powerful one day; Jean-Luc echoed his assent. The images fractured, a struggle - Jack - who was trying to get to Rani. Or Ianto. Or both of them. Stephen had stepped in, allowing Jean-Luc to assist Rani if she needed it, but even with an eye on the girl Jean-Luc had kept his mind on Jack.

Stephen looked good, Ianto thought; the last time Ianto had seen him he had been sporting a cast and a black eye after an accident with a volatile telekinetic who'd been startled while having a wank in his dormitory.

"He never learns, our Stephen. He had his belt buckle welded to his stomach last March. Caught a couple snogging after curfew."

Not that Jean-Luc had any right to comment, caught snogging after curfew a time or two himself. Ianto would know. He'd gotten in trouble as well and he wasn't even supposed to be in those halls.

"Oh, but it was fun, sneaking you in. What were they going to do, kick me out?"

A free Jean-Luc in his teens was a frightening image indeed - there wouldn't be a dormitory safe from his snooping. Jean-Luc's laughter tickled the edges of Ianto's mind, and the images continued, Jean-Luc's concern for Ianto palpable and at times overwhelming. Jack and Stephen were talking, but Ianto could feel the confusion surrounding Jack. Two bodies with no visible signs of attack, a girl sitting atop Ianto surrounded in a soft glow, and a man beside her, watching. Flashes of time sped before Ianto, slowing to focus on Jack as he checked his wrist, fiddling with the device and arriving at a conclusion that he understood but couldn't all the same.

"She's human." Jack had said to Stephen, who smiled and shrugged.

"You and your narrow little categories." Jack had balked at Stephen's response. His stunned look as he tried to add something which wasn't mathematically sound was an expression Ianto would cherish through the trying times he knew would present themselves often in the future.

Ianto had a disorienting feeling of watching himself stir, remembering the confusion, and was mollified that it was displayed in his initial distress. Jack and Stephen watched, Stephen actually holding Jack's long coat to prevent him from interfering. Jack had eventually calmed, face shifting into contemplation.

"Do you trust him?" Jack had asked, eyes never leaving the three.

"Ianto? You are Torchwood." Stephen answered in his rich deep voice, who Ianto noted was getting a large Christmas gift this year, and had summed everything up in one statement, but Jack was not to be distracted.

"That's not much of an answer."

"I've known Ianto all his life. It wasn't much of a question."

The images stopped, Ianto flowing into the present with a calming hand on his shoulder. Jean-Luc had at some point moved, supporting Ianto while they traveled along his friend's memories for clarification, a process eerily familiar to Ianto but much more satisfying than CCTV video. After all, these came with audio.

He understood what Jean-Luc was asking, though. It wasn't so much Avalon that Jean-Luc considered Jack a threat to. It was Ianto.

Ianto impatiently pushed Jean-Luc away, wanting to stand as his feet were really going pins-and-needles with Rani asleep atop of his legs. Jean-Luc shifted Rani, resting her on the ground for a moment while he helped the unsteady Ianto to his feet. Death could do that to a person, so it seemed, or near death, whatever the case might be. Ianto was dragged into a hug so tight it threw all air from his lungs, but he returned it just as forcefully, clutching the tall, gangly brilliantly blue-eyed lech to him. There was nothing to be spared on that figure, to which Jean-Luc responded with a mental image of Ms. White, the chicken, clucking about and mother-henning him to death. With a shared laugh, and very little actually spoken their entire conversation, Ianto took the proffered t-shirt from one of the individuals in the white van as the others managed the rather public scene that had just occurred. He quickly stripping off the ruined shirt and jacket, ignoring the quantity of blood staining the garments. Jean-Luc gathered Rani in his arms, lifting her with a display of talent that had Ianto rolling his eyes. Once a child of Avalon, always a child. The girl curled and settled into his arms, earning him a look from Ianto and an arched eyebrow of the 'when did you become so domestic' kind.

They joined Stephen and Jack, the latter waiting impatiently. He was tapping his toe in time with the finger on his sidearm, being forced as he was to wait for responses to questions that Stephen refused to answer. Not that Ianto had any additional answers. Avalon was still as secret as it had been at the beginning of the day. Nothing that had transpired would change that. It was Stephen who moved first, spry for going on 55 as demonstrated by his full-body tackle of the blonde woman. He was a former Guardian from Edinburgh, now teacher and mentor for Avalon. He'd taken Ianto under his wing when Ianto had first shown up as a 'promising individual' with Ms. White's office. Taught him all sorts of things Ianto was certain he wasn't supposed to know about, but found enlightening all the same. And fencing. Ianto had loved fencing as a child.

"Had us worried, lad. We got here as fast as we could once we realized Patrick had been killed." Ianto, who had not been on the receiving end of physical demonstrations since before the battle of Canary Wharf, found himself wrapped in hugs twice in one day. It shook him, reminding him of everything he was fighting to regain, that life that he had forced himself to forget. The distance and the barriers, everything erected to maintain a level of control and sanity, shattered by two people who knew him for only two months of the year but still knew him better than most. Ianto returned the embrace, Stephen's salt-and-pepper goatee scratching his cheek, the sensation reminding him of what he had nearly lost. And who had nearly been lost as a result.

"Give my thanks to Rani, please?" Ianto looked at the girl; she hadn't even woken when she'd been moved. He felt guilty for feeling so alive when she was completely wiped from the experience, but if it hadn't been for her...

Stephen nodded with a smile, then shared a look with Jean-Luc.

Jack.

Ianto stepped forward, eyeing Jack who had remained remarkably quiet throughout. He rather thought Jack was aware of the precarious situation he was in, having pieced together what he had seen, Ianto's apology, and just what he didn't know about the government he supported through work and life. Jean-Luc believed him a threat to Ianto, and Ianto wasn't quite sure that wasn't an unjust assumption, but not for quite the same reasons. Jean-Luc didn't know of Lisa. Jack could destroy Ianto's plans before he had time to put them fully in motion. He still needed time, information, research...and the bloody codes to the Archives. But he had known his decision before approaching Stephen and Jack. It was the only option that to Ianto seemed just; to him, he had no other alternative.

With a nod to Jean-Luc who stepped forward, Ianto looked Jack square in the eye. "Sir, I don't typically encourage my employers or my partners to self-medicate." Ignoring Stephen's muffled cough at Ianto's choice of wording (he wasn't exactly sure what to refer to Jack as after the incident in the lab, but quoting Jack seemed the best approach), he gestured to Jean-Luc, who Ianto knew could erase the day's events; after all, he had on occasion gotten them out of a scrape or two in the past. "But I'm feeling particularly generous today."

Jack's smile was brilliant - not one of the fake grins he applied when charming scary blonde women with guns and intent to kidnap a powerful young girl, but a true smile. Ianto nearly smiled in return, but three times in one day (twice witnessed) was stretching it.

"That won't be necessary, Ianto." Jack quoted back, half-bowing with sincerity to Jean-Luc who still looked ill-tempered despite cradling the sleeping Rani in his arms. Jack knew, or was at least aware, of the thin ice he was treading and also appeared to know the choice he had been given.

"Good." With a wave to old friends, Ianto turned towards Torchwood, their original destination before this disaster had occurred. Jack waved as well and followed, walking side-by-side as they headed back to base, darkness slowly creeping over Cardiff as night awoke from her slumber.

"You look good in a t-shirt, but I think I like the suits better."

Ianto couldn't help but smile.


Report Addendum:

Captain Harkness is aware of Rani Tapadia but unaware of Avalon. Be advised I have changed Stephen Beckett's decoy personnel files with MI5 to indicate a civilian encounter with Torchwood One.

***

Everybody had a different way of dealing with death.

Jack gave him the day off.

Not that Ianto had accepted the day off, he still had concerns at Torchwood (Lisa), but the gesture was appreciated. It was a typical reaction to death -- give the grieving time to carry out their grieving. Ianto had seen it; he'd experienced it. The Powers-That-Be (Ms. White) had granted all remaining employees unconditional leave following the destruction of Torchwood London. Ianto had taken twenty-seven days; long enough to attend all the services. They hadn't followed protocol after the Battle, there just had been too many. No bodies, but the family members were notified, if there were family members. Torchwood employees seemed remarkably solitary. For those who were not solitary creatures, many married within. And services were held, single, double, in one case triple services where a husband, wife, and father of the wife had been killed. So many in attendance, each speaking so highly of the individuals, hero-fying them in the relative's memory. Brave acts, defending Britain. They'd died for their country.

It had been difficult to attend all the services -- sometimes he could only attend the rosaries or the wakes or the receptions -- but at each one he made a point to attend and speak to each family, to know their faces, to know their grief. It let him understand the person from their perspective instead of the trivial details he witnessed. (Candace Wilford, 36, Physicist, Boxed blonde, preferred watercress sandwiches with her tea even though she hated them because Marcus Townsend liked them. Marcus Townsend, 42, Recruiting. Lawn dart injury left him with one testicle. Overcompensated through exercise, high cuisine, and expensive cars. Had an affair with Candace in hopes of earning lifetime membership with exclusive gym her husband owned). Loved by their families and spouses, honored in death.

Gavin's service had been difficult. Gavin's mother had cried. Elaine had cried. Ianto's father had cried. His mother was absent. Ianto had been given the twins and he'd managed as best he could their questions about their dad and the deviled egg smeared on his suit.

Lisa's had been better. Her parents had cried. Her sister had cried. Ianto had watched and planned.

One of the survivors had taken his life five weeks following the Battle. Ianto had attended that memorial, too. (Jonathan Smythe, 35, Bio-chemist. Wife, Helena Smythe, 38, R&D, killed during the Battle. Couple most known for crashing buffet table at the Holiday Party two years past while intoxicated and comparing breast size. Jonathan had won.) At the funeral, Ianto discovered the man had enjoyed downhill skiing and fencing; it made him regret not knowing Jonathan.

Ianto's death had been...unique. And he wasn't quite sure he deserved a day off. He wasn't grieving for the loss of another, and he wasn't incapable of working. So he went in to work the following morning and threw away the trash which had accumulated overnight.

Fifteen hours following what Ianto classified as one of his worst days (fighting a fierce battle for superiority with the day Hell had unleashed itself on London but was quickly gaining ground as he had actually died) and everything was back to as they had been. None of the team spoke to him, none asked how his day was. Jack looked on from his office when Ianto arrived that morning, but said nothing, choosing the path of quiet disinterest. Ianto knew that wasn't entirely accurate, Stephen's file had been accessed at approximately 2:13am that morning. Hopefully Jack's curiosity was quelled for the time being and he was choosing the safer approach of not bringing up what he had seen. Ever. Owen, under the misassumption that Ianto had taken the Retcon, had returned to his standard issue self seen before the incident in the lab. He had been quiet for a time -- perhaps guilt, perhaps fear -- but whatever had held him back, Owen was back to his obnoxious self.

And Ianto went back to ignoring him.

***

"Ianto."

He had heard Jack come into the Information Center, but Ianto pretended not to have noticed, focusing on the wiring in the small device that had come through the Rift and considered inconsequential. During a particular frantic moment in the Hub the day after his brush with mortality, he had requested an opportunity to look at the device; his request quickly granted by a Jack who most definitely was not focused on Ianto but the swirling light leisurely bouncing around the Hub, giving everyone it touched a silver sheen. It had taken a certain affection to Miles and Owen, to Ianto's amusement. Ianto knew what it was; it was in the Torchwood Archives if anyone had thought to look. A light being from Alpha Centuri, harmless, it'd wear itself out and disappear once the fear was gone. Because that's what it was there to do, wash away the fear through its silver happy dust. Of course, the others appeared oblivious of that fact so Ianto calmly took his gadget to the Information Desk to fiddle with while the team tried in vain to capture the being.

It had been his project for three days now, alleviating his boredom when the Hub was for the most part clean and the Desk was quiet. He wasn't about to allow an interruption destroy the work he'd put into fixing the tiny artifact. "Yes, sir?" That, and he knew why Jack was there.

"Funny thing, Ianto. I just got a call from Cardiff General Hospital. Seems Owen's checked himself in."

"Really, sir?" Tiny sparks flew as the small soldering iron Ianto had borrowed from Suzie -- he couldn't fix the alien tech with the raw materials they had on Earth, but he was able to bypass the broken circuit and trick the device into recognizing an Earth-made power source. "Is he okay?"

"Yes. Well, he's alive." Jack crossed the desk, leaning on his elbows across from Ianto to get a closer look at the alien device, deceptively curious. "Seems he's got some skin glued together by an unknown substance that they just can't get to separate."

Ianto stopped the welding, peeling the safety goggles from his face. The bridge of his nose was tender and he rubbed it, hoping it wouldn't leave a mark. He really had no desire walking around looking like a lemur until the marks went away. "Maybe he should have read the directions before gluing himself together."

Poking the device, Jack prodded it until Ianto slapped his hand away, pouting in what Ianto assumed was supposed to be a wounded, endearing fashion. "See, now that's the funny thing. He wasn't gluing anything. To his knowledge, there was no glue in his flat. And yet, somehow while masturbating he ended up with his hand affixed to his dick."

At the moment, Ianto took pride in not being quick to laugh. His sister had hated him for it; she always had spoiled the surprises for their father when they were kids. But it had come in handy when he had been in school. As it did now. "How unfortunate. Is this a Torchwood matter? I can bring the SUV around."

"What is that?" Jack asked instead, pointing at the gadget (but not touching, he learned quickly). Ianto carefully picked up the device he had been working on and flipped the 'on' switch, or what amounted to the on switch. For a moment Ianto was afraid it still wouldn't work, but then a light sound filled the air; the tinkling of crystal drops on tiny bells, melodic and beautiful sounds of joy and laughter. Scales soured and swelled as the sound danced, not scales Ianto had ever heard but he could spot the musical patterns. He nudged a dial, and a different sound echoed through the room, a low reverberation which Ianto could feel in the marrow of his bones. It wasn't just a growl, though, it wasn't meaningless noise. The music wept if one listened closely, a haunting tragedy of sound which Ianto quickly flipped past. Crackles, chattering, the scritching sound of termites in the walls blended with reed pipes, an anxious sound that prickled Ianto's skin like nails on a chalkboard did. The song changed, lighter, warmer, the sound of a hot summer's day with a clear sky. "An alien iPod?"

Ianto shrugged, changing the song again. He had seen one of these in London. R&D had a field day with the device and the xeno-anthropologists wore permanent post-orgasmic smiles. Mathematicians had been taken off projects to study the music and computer techs and engineers tried to understand how such a little device could store the amount of data estimated to be held by the object. That had been two days before the discovery of the 'ghosts'.

Needless to say, the answers were never found.

Remarkably perceptive that day, Jack changed the subject and Ianto wasn't forced to explain why he had needed to fix the device. "It might be a Torchwood issue. It's not glue, they can't identify it. And the doctors can't figure out how to separate his hand from his bits without removing skin."

"That sounds painful, sir."

"Hopefully it won't come to that." Jack straightened, brushing non-existent dust from his shirt sleeves. Ianto kept a cleaner Torchwood than that.

Ianto pushed the button to open the door for Jack, more melancholy than he had been when Jack had first entered. Not because he pitied Owen stuck in the hospital with his most prized possession stuck to his own hand, but drifting in memories was not typically a wise occupation for him to follow. It weakened him, forced his attention away from the end result. Ianto knew it was not beneficial. But he couldn't explain his need to make that object work.

"Sir?" Jack stopped in the doorway, one hand on the frame. Ianto never looked up but it was such a patented Harkness move Ianto knew it occurred without witnessing it. He continued to flip through the music, knowing that even in his lifetime he could not listen to, much less understand all that was contained in this device. "I've heard diluted potassium permanganate works well for that sort of thing. You might have the doctors try that."

"I'll mention it to them. Suppose it can't hurt to try."

Hearing the door close behind Jack, Ianto triggered the next song.

***

Twenty-four hours and thirteen minutes later, Owen passed through the Information Center, angry as a wet cat and flipped off Ianto with a splotchy, stained brown hand.

Ianto smirked as the door shut behind Owen and went back to his Sudoku puzzle.

To his surprise, Jack brought him coffee from Starbucks half an hour later.

***

Six days after the run in with Avalon, Ianto found himself bringing coffee to Jack in hopes of requesting that personal day he had previously turned down. His early morning had been spent fielding calls from an irate Ms. White ("How dare you allow Captain Harkness keep information relating to Avalon! I'm ordering you to return to London." He politely refused, reminding her that he was her only informant in Torchwood Three as well of the data file he had stored at a secured location which contained information he would make public -- or would be made public at time of his untimely death. She relented.) to his sister ("It's the twins' birthday on Friday. You'll come, won't you?") and frankly, he was tired.

"Ianto! Just the beautiful face I wanted to see."

Ianto's consciousness took a brief sojourn as the images of what his face could be needed for skittered across his mind, fueled by the faint remnants of memory of what Jack had done for him in the lab. He didn't blush as he set the coffee down in front of Jack, Ianto knew he didn't blush. But he could feel the tips of his ears reddening in response to a typical Jack statement. The man was a hazard. "Was there a request, sir, or am I simply to stand and look pretty?"

Jack smirked while his fingers took a lazy spin, indicating Ianto was to turn around, apparently believing Ianto had lost all semblance of self and was now simple-minded enough to obey. Ianto smiled and stood his place with his hands clasped at his back, ignoring Jack's look of disappointment when he refused. "Anything else, sir?"

"Yes, actually. I need you to find a few records from the Archives. What I need are..."

Ianto tuned out Jack's voice as his attention was caught by the slight visual of an object which shouldn't have been in the room. His head tilted to get a better view, about eye-level on a shelf not far from Jack's desk, inching close to it as though it were an explosive. It wasn't, he was sure, but one could never be too careful. It was tiny, tucked into one of the trinkets Jack had stashed about his office. Barely visible, but Ianto recognized it.

"Of course, after I place an order for more coffee. Which blend would you prefer?" Ianto asked Jack, knowing he was not responding particularly well to Jack's request and he should be elated with the knowledge that finally, he was to be granted access to the Archives, but his focus was on the tiny coiled wire nestled in the relic. He wasn't sure who he was more irate with, the nerve of someone else spying on Torchwood Three or that he'd missed it amidst his cleaning, though he hadn't given as thorough a cleaning to Jack's office as he had with nearly every other room in the Hub. The office, though cluttered, was typically well-kept.

With steady hands, Ianto prodded the device with a pencil, dislodging the disk from inside the statue through the hole in its stomach (Ianto supposed there was symbolism in it, but he'd never given it much thought) and carefully removed the bug and held it for Jack to see.

Jack was livid. Ianto could see it in the change in posture, the narrowing of his eyes, and the thin line his lips drew across his face. In fact, for a fleeting moment Ianto believed it was the same look the CCTV camera had captured in the lab, but then it was gone, Jack's face calm, casual as he spoke. "The blend you brewed two weeks ago would be splendid. Could you hand me that statue over there? It has a language on it that I think would help Suzie in her translations." With that, Jack took the bug from Ianto's fingers and smashed it on his desk with a stapler.

Ianto picked up the remains, giving them a cursory inspection before throwing it all in the waste bin, reminding himself to empty it before the day was through. "That was efficient, sir. Still leaves the matter of the statue, however."

"I'll hide it. Never liked it anyways; always made me hungry." Jack studied the Hub outside his office window for a moment before tapping on the device at his wrist, scowling at whatever he read. "Found four additional bugs, hidden throughout the Hub. Who-"

"The device is U.S., sir. Early 2005 design. Microphone, affixed to the inputs with a range of about 25 meters, transmitting distance of approximately 1000 meters in open air, though I'm not quite sure how the Hub would affect the signal, if they aren't being captured within the building."

Knowing he was being studied, Ianto stood quietly as Jack stared with arms crossed then eventually moved to sit behind his desk. He probably shouldn't have spoken in lengths about the device, but it was too late to remove the words hanging in the air. He had done that in school once, made a comment about a teacher's wealth and how they had (illegally) accumulated it based on what he had seen, what he had looked into. Just as now, he'd spoken without thinking. Would have been removed from the school had the Swansea press not gotten ahold of the story through an anonymous tip.

He still remembered the phone number.

"You're telling me Torchwood has had a spy since 2005?"

Ianto bit back laughter at the irony. Imagine that, a spy at Torchwood. He both hated himself and his "duty." "That is possible."

Jack cursed, shocking Ianto as he'd rather heard much more than laughter or serious quiet in response to a perceived threat. He didn't blame Jack; Ianto felt like cursing himself. He wasn't fond of being caught unawares. He preferred to know what existed -- expect the expected and be able to use it to his advantage. Like his flat. And though Torchwood Three was hardly a place he would claim strong ties to, at the same time, he felt offense that someone would bug a Torchwood location, his location. And given the relative difficulty in accessing the Hub, the implications were disturbing, though Jack's screening of new employees did leave much to be desired. At least Ianto knew he was spying for Torchwood, if not for this exact office, and not some foreign government.

"Whoever planted this will be back to replace it." Jack hesitated, Ianto was sure he would go on, but he didn't, taking a sip of the coffee instead. Yes, whoever planted it would be back to replace it, if they were still at Torchwood. Maybe it was Owen, and they could finally be rid of the menace. Although the menace had been remarkably quiet, of late. His hand had finally lost the discoloration; a pity, Ianto thought. But he rather believed the man was a bit afraid of him.

The notion filled Ianto with great joy.

As did remembering the task which he had been distracted from once he'd spotted the bug. "The files you wanted?" The cure was that much closer.

"Right." Jack was still distracted as he scribbled some notes on spare sheet of paper, including the passcode and handed it across the desk. Ianto didn't faint upon receiving the paper, but he felt, embarrassingly, a bit weak-kneed.

He didn't look at it, didn't stare at it until the black letters and numbers burned a permanent mark in the back of his eyes, he just slipped it into his coat pocket, certain it would be safe. "If I may, I'd like to request a personal day tomorrow."

"For that?" Jack smiled, waving to the bin with the remnants of the device, "take two."

If not for Lisa and the fear of what state the Hub would be in upon his arrival two days later, Ianto might have taken Jack up on the offer. "Thank you, but one is all I need." He added with a nod to the shelf as he was leaving. "Don't forget the statue, sir."

"Ianto?" Ianto turned in the doorway, slightly surprised to be called back. Jack was placing the statue in the far back corner of his office safe, apparently not disliking the relic enough to destroy it. "Thanks."

"It is my duty, sir."

***

Twin torpedoes of three-year-old terror hit his knees when Ianto entered his father's house, nearly buckling him before he could steady himself. As it was, he dropped one of the packages he carried, the corner nudging the tail of the massive calico cat twirling about his ankles and sending her into a hissing fit after bolting straight up in the air, to the delight of his nephews.

"Again Unc-Ianto!" came the chorus of high voices.

Kids were like cats. Given a purchased toy and a tin foil ball and the most entertainment would be found in the tin foil ball. The twins' gifts, at the end of the day, would probably pale in comparison to making the cat jump.

They got a big hug and kisses on their heads from their uncle as he tried to juggle both kids and the brightly decorated packages. Ianto heard footsteps and winced as Elaine went storming by without acknowledging him while Bryce and Gareth clung to him. Women were like cats, too. Zero to spitting in less than a breath. What he had done to make her angry he had no idea, and he was rather afraid to enter the kitchen to greet her and his father.

"Banshee looks like she's been hitting the field mice a little heavy." Ianto said in greeting as he moved robotically into the kitchen, lugging two clinging child-sized octopi on his calves. Elaine slammed a cupboard door in response.

Clueless, Ianto sought out his father who was of no help, shrugging as he stuffed his pipe, tapping the tobacco with a rhythmic, long-practiced beat. Ianto missed the smell of pipe tobacco. Every time he returned to their small family home outside of Swansea, he stepped back in time, a kid again running around the countryside by day, curling up with a book at night, half-listening to his father's stories while Elaine knitted (lumpy) stocking and hats, the smell of pipe drifting around them, making them drowsy. It had just been the three of them, but it was home. Home relaxed him more than anything else; he'd been away far too long.

"C'mon, boys. Help grandpa set the table." Broderick took his pipe and gathered the twins from Ianto's legs, leading them (escaping) off to the patio leaving Ianto and his sister alone in the kitchen where they stood silently, awkwardly. Ianto wasn't sure what was wrong and Elaine wasn't talking. She just banged some pots around, slamming another cupboard as she prepared the twins' birthday dinners. Ianto rarely felt so helpless.

"Can I help with anything?" he broached, still maintaining a good distance from the knives and heavy objects. A cutting board landed with a thud on the counter, causing Ianto to jump as he inched towards his sister. He didn't even fear Weevils as much as he was scared of Elaine right then. "Elaine?"

"Mother called." A knife thwapped into the cutting board, cutting through a carrot to punctuate the sentence, a timed event Ianto knew. She still had her back to him, her dark hair hiding her face. Ianto couldn't read his sister any easier than he could read Jack, and that was saying a great deal. "She's worried about you."

So she was using Elaine to get him to move back to London, to join her in rebuilding Torchwood One. Not likely, not even if it came with a raise and full blessing from the Queen (it didn't, but that never stopped his mother). His sister's anger was explained then, she figured out she was just a puzzle piece in their mother's game. Not that it was surprising, Ianto was actually fairly surprised she hadn't tried it before, even when Elaine said no to the Torchwood invitation. Elaine had said no to everything, actually, and met Gavin by chance, only later discovering he'd worked for Torchwood. "Elaine-"

"You died." The knife blade thwapped once more as it embedded itself in the cutting board and his sister finally turned around. God, she was crying. Ianto didn't know what to say, what to do and he just stood numbly with his hands half-reaching for her, half at his sides. He hadn't considered that she or his father would ever find out what had happened. He was actually fairly surprised his mother knew. But Rani...he should have considered it. She would have needed a check up and observation when she had returned to Avalon, make sure she hadn't burned herself out, pushed herself too far too fast in healing him. Ms. White would have known. And she told Elaine. "She said you died. You...someone shot you. You died, Ianto."

Reaching out, Ianto pulled Elaine away from the counter, hugging her like he had back when Gavin had been killed. She'd been so desperate, the twins so young they'd never remember their father and Elaine trying to deal with the kids and the loss of her spouse. Desperate and grieving but never alone. "I'm still here, Ellie." Ianto spoke into her hair, holding her while she cried into his shirt. He should have thought of this. He should have warned her, told her, something so she didn't have to hear it from their mother. She had just lost Gavin...he should have thought of it. But he'd been so relieved to be alive he just ... hadn't considered her.

"Leave Torchwood."

"What?" She was now sniffling and huffing against his chest, and the whispered request startled him out of his thoughts. He pulled away, drying her cheeks with his thumbs to hear her because he was sure he hadn't heard her correctly.

"You've got to leave Torchwood." She was distraught, frantically patting and poking his chest to make her point. "I can't lose you, too. You've got to get out of there. Torchwood blackens everything it touches. It will be the end of everything."

Ianto captured her hands because while not painful, the flailing was distracting and unnerving, toppling over the guilt that threatened to bubble into an explosion of truth, but he couldn't tell his sister, not yet. He and Lisa would visit, but Elaine would feel better knowing they were alive and safe. "Ellie, I can't leave. Torchwood needs me." And Ianto needed Torchwood, at least until Lisa was well.

"If anything happens to you, I will destroy that office myself, starting with Ms. White."

He supposed he should have been surprised by his sister's words, vowed with an intensity which would have sent him running for life if it had been directed at him. Matricide being frowned upon by most of humanity, he also assumed he should deflate her anger, redirect or temper it. Given her intelligence she could probably do it and still make it home in time to give the twins a bath and read them a bedtime story. To be honest, he mostly agreed with his sister. When weighing the benefits against the long hours, the death toll and the inevitable soul-selling, it was difficult to logically rationalize its existence. Good things did come from Torchwood and Avalon did great things for people who were "special," but overall, arguing the merits was a lost cause. And after London, Ianto had little loyalty left.

So, Ianto did exactly opposite what he should have done and promised in return, "If I die, I'll make sure you have the tools to do it."

His sister's smile was worth whatever loyalty he was extinguishing.

***

Dinner was a success. Bryce and Gareth wore far more than they consumed which may have had something to do with their uncle starting a food fight with the mashed potatoes. After washing up and opening presents, the adults collapsed in the patio chairs while the boys played in the yard before the cake was brought out. Ianto's father lit his pipe, per Ianto's request. Broderick had given his son an odd look, but Ianto just shrugged, unable to voice why he needed it.

"One day, Ianto, you'll have children and I will purchase the loudest, most obscene toys I can find and give them to the kids with a smile. Then I'll leave, escaping to my quiet household."

Ianto smirked at his sister. The plastic toy swords that buzzed, chimed and squawked when they struck were the definite hit of the party, if the laughter and noise from the yard was any indication. He had purchased some educational toys as well, but what boy could refuse a sword? Especially swords that made noise. Lots of noise.

Lazily, a warm effect brought on by family, pipe smoke, and alcohol, Ianto gestured with his glass of Cognac at the twins chasing after each other with an energy Ianto didn't think he ever possessed as a kid. "You should thank me, they'll be knackered before seven."

"And I'll be woken up even earlier to the sounds of sword fighting and glass breaking."

"Have I ever told you the story about Ianto battling mum's old vase?"

Ianto groaned and shrunk into his chair as his sister crowed and encouraged their father's interruption. It wasn't his fault that the tales his father had told had left an impression on him as a young kid. He had honestly believed that the vase housed a spirit, trapped by dark agents from the future and it had been up to him to release it. And he had. With a broomstick.

He was saved from the story by his mobile ringing, so relieved to be spared the humiliation that he didn't check the I.D. before answering.

"I need you back at the Hub. Now."

"Sir?" Ianto straightened in the chair, an automatic response which was reflected in both his father and his sister. The casual comfort of home quickly rushed away, replaced by dread at whatever words might follow the clipped orders. He had been given a day of leave; if Jack was requesting he cancel his time off, Ianto was fairly certain it was serious. If it wasn't, especially on his nephews' birthday, Ianto would have words with his boss.

"Miles is dead."

"Dead? How?" Ianto glanced at his remaining glass of Cognac and judged it worthy of consuming before he left. Not savoring the glass of brandy was sacrilegious, but wasting it when there was cause to drink it was worse. He swallowed the contents of the glass and stood, making his way towards his nephews to tell them goodbye before he left.

"Unknown. We found him at his house when he didn't show up for work. Owen thinks it was a heart attack but..."

But in their line of work, one never was certain, even after the autopsy. Ianto was immediately the focus of Bryce and Gareth's sword fight once they caught sight of him, thinking he was joining their fun, so Ianto made the conversation quick before Jack asked about the odd buzzes, chimes and squawks in the background. "I can be there in 45 minutes." He hung up the phone, falling to the ground in melodramatic fashion as his nephews slew the evil uncle with their plastic swords. It was a pile-up with Ianto at the bottom, their shrieks and laughter music to his ears. If only he could capture that feeling, the sheer life they exuded, bottle it up and sniff it whenever the need arose. Life might be brighter then.

Ianto chased them inside when he didn't see his father or his sister on the patio, assuming correctly they had gone in. His father met him at the door, ushering in the twins while motioning for Ianto to wait.

"One of your own?"

Nodding, Ianto slipped his phone in the back pocket of his jeans, faded with wear and the most comfortable thing he owned, next to the hoodie Elaine and Gavin had given him for his birthday five years ago which read "I Want to Believe" under the face of a green alien. "Funny," he had told Elaine. She just laughed and handed him a pair of green alien slippers to match. He realized he'd be going into the office dressed in street clothes, but that couldn't be helped, not if Jack wanted him there as soon as possible.

"We worry, Ianto. But I know you'll do what's best."

Best? "For whom?" Ianto wanted to ask, never certain where his father stood on matters relating to Torchwood and Avalon. Most often, it was a strange support, one he wouldn't think would exist given his marriage had been sacrificed in the name of the office. He hugged his father instead, receiving a hearty clap on his back which left him windless.

Elaine walked in then, shoving a plate into his hands which Ianto swore was the largest single serving of birthday cake he'd seen. The icing was smeared by cellophane, but he could still make out the letters "Happy Birt" written in bright green within the swirls. The cake had been a brown horse with a brilliant red saddle and an expertly piped black mane and tail; the twins were going through an equestrian phase which was better received by their mother than the space explorers they had wanted to be the previous month.

More than likely, the icing would color his mouth a most unhealthy shade of purple-black. Disgusting, but he knew the twins would love it.

"Your birthday's next. Be thinking of what kind of cake you want."

And that's what the cake was, not a tasty confection to send him into sugar-shock but a reminder. His birthday was six months away. It wasn't brown, black, red, and green mashed against clear cellophane, it was a study on celebration and life, like reading tea leaves in the bottom of your teacup. In his hands he held his nephews' past year and anticipation for the future. For all their trouble and terrible two's, the terrors of three were something to look forward to, something his sister joyfully celebrated. And in six month's time, Ianto would join her as the family celebrated his past year and anticipated the next, something he was certain his sister would bring about even if she had to move mountains and destroy Torchwood.

He vaguely wondered what color his mashed icing swirls would be.

***

Four days following Miles' death, eleven days following the run in with Jean-Luc and Stephen, Ianto found himself in the same loop, just a slightly different circle. The Hub felt hollow; it echoed with emptiness despite the team's presence. He made coffee every morning, just as he had, but the mugs he washed were one fewer than before. Owen still threw insults at the "tea-boy," but they lacked the venom as before and no one joined his laughter. Eventually, the insults and bullying nearly stopped and Ianto faded that much more into the background. Sometimes Ianto questioned his own existence, testing it one day when he arrived to work at ten-past. Suzie had noticed his late arrival and might have commented, if Wilson hadn't interrupted and asked where the coffee was.

And Lisa ... sometimes Ianto wondered if she was truly there or not. Sometimes he thought she knew him; other days she didn't, her beautiful brown eyes vacant. That was the high risk of rescuing her, of the plan he was carrying out, but he had to believe she still was the Lisa he had known before the Battle. She was there, it was the machinery which interrupted her consciousness; once it was gone, she'd be healthy and aware again. But he couldn't deny that a small shade of hope went black every time he had to remind her who he was.

The only one who seemed to remember that was Jack, but in the past four days, he had been understandably distracted. Miles' death had been ruled a heart attack, but Jack appeared to feel guilt for the loss of one of the team despite the absence of responsibility. Add to that the weight of knowing a spy (not Ianto) was possibly in their midst and the Captain's shoulders were slumped with the weight of the world. The files Ianto had recovered in the Archives went untouched, as did his request to organize the chaos that existed behind the locked door. Ianto made sure he ate, as he did with the rest of the team, placing their favorites in front of them so they would react out of habit, even if it meant spending hours of his morning placing the orders at multiple restaurants.

Ms. White had sent a package by courier two days following Miles' death. Jack had taken one look at the files and thrown them to the side, ignoring them in favor of what Ianto could only guess to be quiet contemplation of the best revenge against the woman. When Ianto walked into the office on the fourth day with Jack's morning coffee, however, Jack was reading through them, tossing an occasional file into a very small stack while most fell into what Ianto presumed was the discard pile.

After he set the muffin (blueberry) and coffee down beside Jack on that fourth day, Ianto waited patiently while Jack skimmed through another CV and threw it into the ever growing trash pile. With all the building tension filling the Hub, Ianto's nerves were rapidly fraying wondering when the tipping point was going to be reached and the dam would burst. He could see it coming, the quiet creep of too many people with too many secrets forced to spend too much time with too much silence. When it broke, Ianto hoped he was far, far away. There were too many dangerous artifacts laying around the Hub that could leave a permanent mark.

"What?" Jack finished the last file, throwing it down with a flourish into the discard pile and finally aware of Ianto still standing in the room.

Clearing his throat, Ianto gestured to the stack of CVs, fairly certain there were nothing but clowns following direction of Ms. White in the pile. Knowing the possibility existed that someone, possibly American, was spying on them was one thing. Knowing that he was being reported on by someone who worked for the same woman to whom he was reporting Hub activity was too much. "I may have a solution, sir."

Jack sat back, hands behind his head, one foot casually kicking the large stack of CVs into the waste bin. Ianto made note to read through the files to see who was in Ms. White's favor before he burned them. "Do tell."

"Dr. Toshiko Sato, sir. 31 years old, Doctorates in both medicine and computer engineering. Fluent in English and Japanese. Studied at Oxford University before being hired by the government for scientific exploration. Her dissertation was on the properties of anomalies discovered existing in specific regions and how to render images of said disturbances. She created graphical representation of rifts without knowing what a rift was. Recruited three years ago by Torchwood One but in the end, she wasn't hired."

"No? So why are you telling me this?"

"She didn't fit their ideals of a Torchwood One employee, sir."

The smile on Jack's face was wide, full-toothed, and a sight Ianto hadn't seen in four long days. He appeared to mull it over, Ianto nervously wondered if again he'd said too much, perhaps should have left the hiring exclusively to Jack. Eventually, Jack picked up his phone, punching a number into it and motioned for Ianto to wait while he made the call.

"Tosh! You won't believe the conversation I just had," Jack spun in his chair, playing with the phone cord with a smirk on his face that typically meant he was up to no good. Usually that was connected to a comment about Ianto and his suits. " ... no, sex while bungee jumping is not something I'd recommend. Parasailing, though..." Even Ianto could hear Toshiko's indignant shriek of "Jack!" at Jack's comments which apparently had nothing to do with anything she had said and was most likely done to get just that reaction from Toshiko. Or a rise out of Ianto. Jack only succeeded with one, though he did get a raised eyebrow from Ianto. "No, I have someone here insisting I hire you."

Ianto hid his shock, but inwardly he was gaping at the conversation. The familiarity and the ease in which they talked, not to mention Ianto knew what the official pay-roll reports read, implied that Jack wasn't above working outside Ms. White's knowledge and having his own spies.

A credit to Jack. And yet another thing Ianto would not be putting in his weekly report.

***

The implosion of Torchwood Three came as Ianto had predicted, just not exactly how he had expected nor when. Tension melted for a short period, during which attention was focused on a flurry of Weevil attacks, but escalated once the situation was resolved. For the most part, Ianto hid in the Information Center, reviewing files he found in the Archives and updating content to reflect what knowledge existed about the topics. The Cardiff Archives were horribly antiquated and chaotic; while the information was typically relevant, it was on yellowing, disintegrating paper, misfiled and mislabeled, and if there were alien devices, rarely were they located where they were supposed to be. He had very nearly activated a Betelgeusian war mine which had been filed in the Vegan sector under sonic vegetation trimmers. (Of course, the alien names were unpronounceable; Torchwood ordinance #243.7.2 stated that all alien artifacts were to be named by Earth star and Torchwood identification code rather than the given alien name to avoid confusion from same-named objects with different alien origins and purposes.)

The books Ianto found were fascinating, well-worth the effort and labor he was applying to the rest of the Archive. Some of the literature were titles he'd never heard of and others were volumes updated from the original print he'd read in London. For every minute he spent restoring, updating, and cataloging old files, Ianto spent an equal amount of time pouring over the books, translating as needed. He'd yet to find anything regarding the cybermen, however.

Ianto wasn't sure who started the argument. He had stepped past the rolling vault door of the Hub to be greeted by Owen and Wilson yelling at each other. Yelling was probably an understatement -- screaming, more like, and from what Ianto could make out, insulting everything from mothers to intelligence to bed partners, which brought Suzie into the fray. Jack was watching from his office with a consternate look on his face, nodding at Ianto and confirming that he had expected this as well. Toshiko, just transferred from wherever Jack had her working prior, was sitting at her desk attempting to ignore everything going on. Ianto saw Wilson pick up an object that had fallen through the Rift three weeks ago and had yet to be identified and decided this was a situation he chose not to become involved in. He turned heel and walked back out the door, returning to the Information Desk where it was safe, quiet, and unknown-artifact-free. He had an endless supply of work stashed there, and if nothing else, there was always the alien iPod to study. Turning the device on, a baleful, complex melody filled the air, appropriate given the storm thundering in the Hub.

"Ianto Jones, frightened of a little argument?"

He looked up to find Jack, arms loaded with paper and notebooks, making himself at home near Ianto's workspace on the Information Desk. Ianto shifted a few of the texts to make room for Jack's haphazard sprawl of paper; that was the pretense, at any rate. It was mostly to keep Jack from screwing up the order, or mixing any of Ianto's papers that shouldn't be mixed, however unintentional. "I prefer one head to three, sir." Jack chuckled. His boss of all of them would know the truth to Ianto's statement, and grabbed a stool from the back room, making himself comfortable in what Ianto hoped would be a companionable silence. Unlikely. "You abandoned Toshiko when you fled?"

"Strategic retreat. And no, she escaped on the lift." Jack applied pen to paper, violently scratching into word the details of what Ianto assumed was their most recent alien encounter -- an intergalactic trader who'd overshot his mark and crashed (splashed) in Cardiff Bay. Said he'd come to trade some crystals for sweets, turned out he was looking more for humans than confection to take with him on the Butterfly Nebula slave route -- of which Jack was familiar. Ianto had once thought he'd seen Jack angry; those prior encounters had nothing on the moment Jack had learned the alien's intent. If he wasn't already familiar with his boss' ability to charm his way out of everything from the police to Ms. White's disciplinary charges, Ianto might have believed it when Jack agreed to hand Suzie and Toshiko over to the alien in exchange for some data crystals.

Ianto had supplied the cover story of a methane-pocket explosion to explain the brilliant ball of flame that erupted from the Bay and shot into the heavens a good 500 meters, displacing water in huge waves and causing flooding in the low lands surrounding Cardiff Bay (and drenching the Information Center; took Ianto three days to dry it out). Ianto now knew what the passcode for Jack's personal safe was, as well as what the odd, cross-like device tucked in the back corner of the safe was used for.

Jack hadn't smiled when he had pointed it at the area containing the ship (and the alien retrieving the crystals for the trade), but the look on his face was certainly triumphant when he'd activated the device. Ianto watched, the others tucked safely away in the Hub. And he had made certain to lock down the Hub once he'd located the weapon in Jack's safe. Jack hadn't said to, but Ianto wanted to make sure that at least the others would be secure, even if he and Jack stood as easy targets on the pier.

If he wasn't already so embroiled in lies and deceit, Ianto would have sworn then to never cross Captain Jack Harkness. Ianto left out the triumphant look in his weekly report to Ms. White, as he did the weapon. He was sure Jack had never mentioned the device in any of his reports to Ms. White and he most certainly did not want to give Ms. White any indication of the depths of Jack's fury.

Thoughts of matricide apparently ran in the family.

"How many people did we retcon after the encounter with Trader Joe?"

Ianto flipped the page of his book of prophecies for the universe written in 1356 England. A monk had gotten his hands on a Nunkian dream device. Most was pure rubbish, more dream than visionary, but a few had merit. "Fifty-seven in total, sir. Thirteen bystanders who witnessed the crash, nine who saw you fire the weapon, seven husbands, boyfriends, and one girlfriend who were swindled into selling their partners for worthless trinkets. Plus the twenty-seven women we found bound in a warehouse awaiting transfer to his ship."

He heard more pen scratches -- Jack taking notes. Ianto was sidetracked from his book long enough to wonder why Jack was at the Information Desk rather than stopping the melee in the Hub. Not only could it turn violent down there, but there were the remaining listening devices. Even if the bug in Jack's office hadn't been replaced, four devices still existed in the Hub. Ianto had been even more conscious of what he said (very little as it were) recently, knowing he was being heard by ears outside of Torchwood. Jack apparently didn't have the same qualms, and the current argument would only serve as entertainment and possible blackmail material. At the very least it would make Jack appear inept, possibly incompetent as a leader --

And suddenly, Ianto understood why Jack let the argument carry on.

"What are the details for the women?"

"Melanie Broadmore, 27." Having deduced the reason for Jack's presence, Ianto continued reading the prophecies, annoyed at Jack's persistence for conversation and information he already had in the notes on his own desk -- Ianto had made sure they were there in his office when he had tidied up earlier -- but Ianto recited the information for Jack anyway. "She's a bank teller, 31 Gwendoline Street, Splott. Husband, Humphrey Broadmore, 29. Construction worker, same address, retconned as well. India Star, real name Meena Gupta, 24. Prostitute, working for Madam Erzulie in Grangetown. Kimberly Hughes, 25. Pastry chef, 53-"

The cessation of the pen scratching drew Ianto's attention, distracting him from both book and listing. Jack was staring at him, and not with the typical leer that accompanied Jack's "Ianto-in-suit" staring. It was quite unnerving. Ianto was careful not to make any outward acknowledgment of his unease, however, simply holding his place in the book with a finger. "Sorry, sir. Did you need their phone numbers as well? Melanie, 029 204-'

Whatever Jack had intended to say was cut off by the alarm sounding in the Information Center. Ianto watched with fascination as Jack's jaw snapped shut audibly, a click he could hear despite the distance, though the sounds of the alarm echoing dimly through the hall to the Hub was slowly replacing fascination with dread. Most likely, the team had inadvertently unleashed an alien during their fight. But the niggling fear in the back of Ianto's mind was that they had found Lisa. Improbable, but possible.

"Come with me."

Ianto nodded his compliance with Jack's order, taking a moment to lock the Information Center's door and flip the closed sign so that no one would enter and see the documents, devices, or books on the desk. He didn't have a weapon on him, but Jack had his gun drawn, taking every precaution and assuming nothing, it would seem. Owen probably had three heads; Ianto wasn't concerned. Owen might benefit from three heads. Or they might provide three times the ridicule. He followed Jack down to the Hub, waiting as Jack overrode the locked door. Once the door opened, Ianto was just as surprised by what he saw as Jack was from the look on his face.

Owen and Suzie stood with weapons drawn, Owen with a gun and Suzie with the ugly and painful-looking blade that partnered with the glove she was studying. Wilson was in their lines of sight.

Ianto said a silent prayer of thanks to whatever deity was listening that it wasn't Lisa.

"Someone care to enlighten me?"

Jack had moved into the fray, furious but maintaining a distance in case whatever had enthralled the three was contagious. Upon a closer look Owen was sporting a black eye (and only one head) and his nose was bleeding onto his torn shirt. Wilson had a split lip, a cut above his eye, and was looking rightfully worried; Suzie looked a little ruffled, but otherwise okay. No alien devices in anyone's hands, none laying about that Ianto knew to be of concern.

No real cause for the alarm.

"He's a spy!" Owen spat, Ianto for once not hating the man as his focus sharpened, as did Jack's as his gun now had a new target: Wilson. Wilson looked pathetic, sweat beading on his temples, pale grass green polo clinging to his body in giant dark grass green patches. He hardly looked a spy, but then, who did -- or rather, who didn't look like a spy. James Bond had done terrible things for a spy's image, if Ianto did say so himself.

Not putting all his faith in Owen, Jack readdressed his question -- not that Ianto blamed him for doing so. He'd be dubious of Owen's claims as well. "Suzie?"

"It's true. He admitted it." Suzie looked dangerous with the knife in her hand, though whether it was the situation or the blade, Ianto wasn't sure. She'd developed an unhealthy obsession with the glove and the blade, unuseful and morally conflicting as it was. It did neither party any good. What was the point in bringing someone back for twenty ticks only to have them die again? They died a second time. Was it murder if the individual was already dead?

"Wilson. My office. Ianto? Shut off the alarm." There was no arguing with Jack when he spoke like that. No change in pitch, just a steady demand vibrating with contained chaos and violence ready to be unleashed if one crossed those boundaries Jack set. There was no arguing. Ianto watched Wilson's eyes dart to the door, judging the distance and the odds (extremely poor, Ianto calculated) before he gave up in defeat and headed into Jack's office. Jack followed, gun still drawn but not pointed at his back. That would be beneath Jack to shoot a man as such. But that didn't mean he couldn't graze him to stop him from escaping.

Ianto used Toshiko's computer to shut the alarm off and collapsed in her chair; how quickly it had become hers and not Miles'. Two Torchwood employees, gone within a month. Torchwood had a shockingly poor retention ratio.

"Fuck!"

His head jerked up at the sound of metal hitting the floor, Owen pacing like a caged Weevil. His gun skittered across the floor with a hollow sound, bouncing off a desk leg and slowing in front of Ianto, moving far too light. Ianto leaned over and picked it up, certain but double checking to make sure his assumption was correct. "It's not loaded."

"Of course it's not bloody loaded." Owen kicked a chair; the Information Center was looking better and better all the time as a retreat. The tension was no longer evident, instead, umbrage and a feeling of violation exuded from the others. Ianto couldn't see what was going on in Jack's office, but he was sure the same could be said for that room. So this is what Ianto had to look forward to if he was ever caught. The thought wasn't pleasing. "I couldn't kill one of the team."

Frighteningly enough, Suzie looked like she didn't suffer Owen's moment of moral high ground.

A short time later, Jack's door opened and Wilson stepped out, looking dazed. Dazed with a vacant smile on his face. Jack followed, leading him towards Owen with a hand on his shoulder. Ianto could feel his impassive mask slip into a frown, confused by what he was seeing. From the looks on Owen's and Suzie's faces, they were confused as well.

"Owen? Watch to make sure he doesn't wander off to become food for Myfanwy. Ianto? Book him a flight to Las Vegas. Suzie? Put the knife away before you poke an eye out."

Jack wandered off, whistling a merry tune which disturbed Ianto far more than the idea of a spy loose in Torchwood for the past three years. He kept glancing at Wilson, expecting something...anything. But there was just the vacant smile; no one home, no light on. Owen was just as disturbed, but kept a short leash on the man as he attempted to wander off a dozen times. Nowhere in particular, not that Ianto could ascertain, he just appeared to become distracted by anything "new" and was moving to get a closer look.

He was just finishing the call to Cardiff International when Jack returned, four familiar wires in his hand. So Wilson was responsible for the bugging of Torchwood. Wilson. The obsessive-compulsive man who played alien video games and wore the same color shirt every day. It didn't seem possible, but then it was always the impossible that was to be believed in their line of work. Jack was still whistling as he dropped the wires and disks into the acid Suzie was using to clean a piece of alien tech. It fizzled briefly, then stopped, though Jack's whistling didn't. Ianto wasn't actually sure which was more disturbing: Wilson's smile, Jack being the cause of the vacant smile, or Jack's whistling.

Then again, Jack thought his spy threat was gone with the removal of Wilson. Ianto supposed that would be enough to make one happy, even if it wasn't necessarily true.

"He'll be fine after a long nap." Coming from Jack, Ianto almost believed it to be true. "At least he should be. Our pal Wilson just won't remember us. Or the past two years. Will you, Wilson?" Wilson just smiled blankly at Jack while Ianto tried to figure out what Jack had used to cause the memory loss. Wasn't retcon, it didn't work that way. Wilson would have been passed out with that large of dose, possibly overdosed and dead. Ianto's knowledge of alien tech, while extensive, was extremely limited considering the scope of the universe combined with time. He wasn't aware of a device that could produce this effect, but it must exist, hidden in Jack's safe, along with all the other unmentionables.

Ianto reaffirmed his notion never to intentionally cross Captain Jack Harkness unless he had to. The man had a positively low tolerance for insubordination.

***
He had been surprised when the Cardiff International employee had given him the time: 11am. It felt like late evening to Ianto and his inner clock was rarely wrong. But after the events of the morning, time seemed off kilter, stretched and skewed in opposite directions till the minutes bore no passing resemblance to anything remotely scientific. He knew he had made coffee after Jack left to drive the smiling Wilson to the airport; he was conscious of making the decision to make coffee, grind the beans, fill the water reservoir. He had then started cleaning up the mess the argument had caused. Desks disheveled, paper and pens littering the floor, an old take-away cup of coke spilled on the floor and inching towards an outlet -- he had cleaned it all, hours later remembering the coffee and hardly remembering anything he may have thought about while cleaning. When Ianto had gone into the small kitchen, the coffee was still brewing, dripping into a pot three-quarters full.

Ianto supposed he may have been shaken up a bit.

Suzie and Owen had left shortly after Jack returned (no longer whistling, thank the intervening deity), both waiting long enough to be told to go home before actually leaving, despite having mentally clocked out hours earlier. Ianto knew there was far too much work to be done to leave and so he stayed, arranging to move Wilson's belongings into storage, packing up his desk, and hacking into his computer (not difficult, his passcode was his birthday) to search for anything Torchwood related. The one benefit being that he could enjoy the pot of coffee without four others clamoring for a cup.

That left Jack, but Jack hadn't left his office once he had told everyone to go home. That had been three hours ago, and Ianto was a little concerned as Jack had yet to leave his office. Truth be told, he was a little wary of his boss at the moment and felt no remorse for not sharing the coffee. Well, maybe he did feel a little bit, which would explain why he was standing outside the office juggling a mug of coffee (fresh brewed) and a ream of paper -- print outs of pertinent files and communications from Wilson's computer. He didn't bother knocking; he didn't think he'd get an answer.

Jack was facing away from the door when Ianto entered, staring at the statue which had taken its place again on the shelf full of knick-knacks. There was a glass on his desk with what looked like Scotch, it appeared untouched but then it could have been a subsequent glass following countless others.

"I distinctly remember telling everyone to go home."

Remembering that barely caged chaos and violence before the whistling and gleeful smile had taken over, Ianto tread carefully around the monotone voice and tense shoulders. "Coffee, sir?" He set the mug down, quietly nudging the Scotch out of immediate reach. Not that Ianto had any problems with drinking, or even with drinking to forget, but drinking alone and locked away in the bowels of Hell, that was something different.

Ianto carefully set the pile of paper down by the coffee, edges square and neat. "I also brought the relevant information from Wilson's computer. Appears he was working for the U.S. government running out of an 'Area 51' in Nevada. I'll gather what information I can from his home computer, but there's enough here to demonstrate his contact with them since he began at Torchwood."

He hedged at providing more information; Ianto still wasn't entirely sure if his suspicions were fact yet. And until he had more details to offer Jack, he loathed adding to the bad news. Wilson hadn't been bright; how he had actually obtained a position in Torchwood Three was rather a mystery. Probably connections purchased by the group out of Area 51. But his activity had remained undiscovered until recently, meaning he probably had help in hiding. What Ianto found most distasteful was the fact that it appeared his office was essentially functioning and performing just as Torchwood did for the British government. Why stoop to such cross-purposes as having spies while both Institutes were governed by the same official roles (furthering technological advances aside) and the threat of alien invasion affected the world was beyond Ianto. He considered mentioning this to Ms. White with a hint to open relations between the two offices, however, Ianto thought that she would rather send spies to Area 51 than build any sort of functioning relationship.

Yet another detail to leave out of this week's report.

"And?"

Jack spun around, apparently noting Ianto's hesitation. The man looked a little worse for wear, no smile and bearing the grim, serious look he had worn during their outing for coffee and retcon. His hair, while typically casually kept, looked more disorderly than casual, as if he'd run his hands through it and forgot to straighten it again. Ianto would advise glancing in a mirror before stepping out, but Ianto knew better than to test his boss at the moment.

Perhaps Captain Jack Harkness was not as scary as Ianto had believed.

"I may be mistaken, but while organizing the Archives I have found references to devices stored in the Archives that I cannot actually find in the Archives." Ianto had nothing to do with his hands, no tray to hold or file to carry, so he clutched the nervous fingers behind his back, hopefully masking any tension he could not outwardly hide. Relaying data was one thing, but to accuse someone of actually taking alien technology from the Archives to give to another government ... well, Ianto was rather glad Jack had just wiped his memory. He could have shot him and no one would have batted an eye.

"You suspect he took them."

Ianto nodded, slowly, reluctantly. "Yes, sir. At least the ones of most value. A Diadem sphere, for example."

"A Diadem sphere wouldn't be easily missed."

"No, sir." Not at nearly two meters in diameter and glowing pink when ordinary white light hit it. The sphere had a remarkable ability to speed environmental regeneration after a devastation like fire or flood. It was difficult to control, often attempting to spread regeneration to areas unaffected by disaster, hence its storage in the Archives. But it had been a good back-up plan to fix any destruction in Britain or perhaps the rainforests if deforestation continued at the same alarming pace. Ianto wasn't sure what the original use was by the Diademians, but the effects on Earth were stunning.

Jack didn't respond, just steepled his fingers at his chin and resumed the study of Ianto he had begun a lifetime ago at the Information Desk. It was as unnerving the second time as it had been the first time, and Ianto squirmed a bit under his gaze. Remembering the state of the Information Desk and strained by Jack's silence, Ianto turned to leave. He still needed to finish sorting through Wilson's things, storing away anything that was not Torchwood or dangerous, as well as organizing the mess left upstairs, which gave him as proper an excuse as any to leave Jack's office.

He made it to the door before Jack spoke up

"Ianto, what did you do at Torchwood One?"

Ianto spun on his heel, surprised enough by the question that he could only respond with a confused "sir?" It hadn't mattered when Ianto was hired; Jack had never even glanced at his C.V. He knew that his Torchwood employee record was sealed -- all were who had been employed at the London office. There had been some sympathy for the survivors, it seemed, that and to hide any evidence of doubt or questioning Yvonne's authority. His personal information had always been false, even his birthday was incorrect. But his C.V. had been correct insofar as his employment was concerned.

"Your job." Jack spoke slowly as he paused to drink from his coffee mug, speaking like Ianto was a child and needed the time to process. Ianto would have taken offense, but it had been a rather inane, defensive question on his part. Jack's interest after all this time had startled him, and perhaps explained why the Captain had been staring of late. Ianto wasn't disappointed that it wasn't attention to his new suits and the fine tailoring performed by a wonderful man who did Torchwood's dry cleaning. That would have been pathetic of him to feel so. "Where did you work in Torchwood One?"

Reluctant now after months at Torchwood Three, hiding in the shadows and forgotten by everyone (and rather preferring it that way), Ianto tried to think of an alternate response. He didn't want to lie, he'd lied enough thanks to his mother, but given it had been its own department, he couldn't hide behind a generic R&D-type response. And he had been willing to share the information during his "interview" for his position at Torchwood Three, although he hadn't ever considered his new position would be what it was today.

"Intelligence, sir." Ianto said after brief deliberation and opting for the truth, smiling politely with his hands still clasped behind his back.

He didn't miss the slight shake of the coffee mug though Jack tried desperately to hide the surprised response. Tit for tat, Ianto mused. So he wasn't just a teaboy -- he had put it on his C.V., after all.

Jack recovered quickly, setting down his coffee before easing back into his chair. More serious study, no conversation. Just silence as Ianto awaited a response which could have been anything from a promotion to demotion, from smile to anger and suspicion. Ianto could foresee any number of reactions, but silence certainly wasn't one of them.

"Interesting. So tell me, where was your intelligence before Torchwood One was destroyed, Ianto?"

Ianto felt himself go rigid, felt the air escape from the room. He would have tempered his physical reaction to a response he hadn't anticipated (though it was a key reason why Torchwood One records were sealed) but he was too distracted by the tiny corner of his brain which mocked and peppered his soul with guilt standing front and center to dance a merry jig on his heart's remains. All the responsibility, everything he had buried in his focus to save Lisa, came dangerously close to overwhelming him while he stood motionless in Jack's office. And wouldn't that be a wonderful way to collapse, breathless and curled fetal as real ghosts reminded him of all the lives lost.

Sasha Klein, 48. Structural engineer. Wife: Nancy, 47. Father of two, Rebecca and Christian, neither married, one grandchild, Simon, son of Rebecca.

Deborah Smith, 39. Chemist. Two cats, Boyle and Curie. Right index finger missing due to lab accident. Known for leading lectures with her middle finger.

Zhang Jie, 29. Linguistics. Spoke twelve Earth languages and two alien languages fluently, understood at least another two dozen. Unmarried, dated Lucy Grant, 28 from Accounting.

He didn't collapse, however. He didn't move. Ianto maintained the polite smile as he fought back for his control, hiding his personal demons back behind his blanket of security. He had Lisa. He could save Lisa. What little comfort, whatever little reprieve it gave him, Ianto would cling desperately to that one thread of salvation. And he would save her. He was acquiring more knowledge every day. He had even heard rumors of a doctor who specialized in cybernetics. Didn't know his name, but that wouldn't stop Ianto. He had reconstructed a cyberman conversion unit (with Lisa's help). He could find this man.

Remembering to breathe before the tiny black spots dancing in front of his eyes became permanent, Ianto forced himself to calm. He could feel the heat in two tiny spots on his cheekbones, his ears an equal shade. Crimson death, Stephen had called it, learn to control those automatic responses. But with his control in tatters, Ianto very much doubted he could dampen the response at this point. He could pretend calm, though, and so he selected the only other option available. "If you have nothing further, I'll take my leave, sir."

He didn't wait for a dismissal, didn't wait for an answer of any kind. Ianto simply fled, knowing he was running and displaying grand cowardice but he didn't care. He was desperate for Torchwood-free air where breathing wasn't quite so painful and the ghosts couldn't follow.

***
Ianto didn't run far, didn't even make it to his flat. Instead, he turned on a familiar corner and headed to his favorite evening locale. He had found it purely by accident on his first night in Cardiff and hadn't gone to another pub or club since.

Lana's was the name, simplistic and non-descript. He wasn't quite sure how he'd found the place originally, tucked away as it was in the Cardiff Bay area. He'd been driving about the city and took a corner and there it was, neon sign beckoning him in like it was offering a fix to life no one else had. Tonight he wished Lana's had a fix, but the best he could hope for was escape.

He parked in the near-empty lot and noted where he was, though the night might turn out to be one of those nights he preferred to walk home. It was early yet, enough time to drink properly before the crowd arrived.

Two shots of tequila, a glass of Scotch, and a packet of cheese and onion crisps were in front of him before Ianto had even seated himself at the bar. He typically wasn't a tequila drinker; in fact, he didn't prefer the liquor at all. However, he was not about to argue with the owner and bartender; Lana always knew what was best for the moment.

"Lana..." Ianto shot the woman a tired smile, her long, blond hair twirled into feathery twisted knobs on her head. Svetlana Dmitriev, 27, managed like she was 40 and acted like she was 18. Dressed like she was 18 as well. Well, maybe a little older. Not that it didn't suit her and her business, but Ianto would never wear a corset for starters, nor would he wear clothing which seemed so common these days. He actually much preferred his suits for any public appearance. Less complicated and appeased any crowd.

"Bad day, love?" Her accent was thick, heavy Russian, but Ianto knew she could speak with an RP accent to fool the best of them. She leaned across the bar, pale breasts nearly pouring out of the top of the cherry-red corset lined. Ianto snorted at her blatant advances and flipped a crisp at her. His aim was accurate; it bounced between her breasts and rested in her cleavage. With a huff and a laugh at the action Ianto knew few could get away with, she straightened and threw the crisp back at him, bouncing it off his forehead and onto the floor.

Ianto rolled his eyes and threw back the first shot, grimacing at the foul taste and with thanks bit the yellow lemon wedge she held between her fingers. The minx had no scruples. "You would know," Ianto rasped out as the alcohol burned a straight path from mouth to stomach, stealing his breath and making his eyes water. "You poured the drinks."

Lana smirked a knowing smirk and grabbed a shot glass for herself, filling it with the good Russian vodka she reserved for herself, her friends, and well-paying customers. "To old friends who know you better than you do."

He raised shot number two, clinging it in toast before swallowing it with even more distaste than the first. "No fair, you cheat." Warm laughter filled his ears and Ianto noted that his head felt pleasantly light which would have felt better had there not been the tequila and lemon taste in his mouth. But for the moment, a certain boss was slipping from direct conscious thought and the reason that drove him to Lana's was slowly dissolving into the "fret tomorrow" portion of his mind.

Ianto had been surprised when he'd discovered who owned Lana's; had nearly fallen off his barstool that first night when she thumped a glass of Cognac in front of him. She had been born outside Moscow, moved to London when she was 7. Lana was an Avalon graduate, brought to the school for her protection and education, the first in a growing number of children outside of Britain to join the school. She was a Grade 5 Empath, nowhere close to Jean-Luc's talent, but registered with a strength meriting Avalon. And she certainly had found a use for her skill, starting up Lana's and building quite the reputation as a bartender who always seemed to know just what the customer needed.

He'd attended her graduation ceremony, held on one of the few days Ianto was in London visiting his mother. A surprising number of people were there, former graduates, current students, and parents with their children protected by Guardians who lived in the immediate area. Ianto hadn't understood at first why the need for Guardians until Stephen explained that some parents didn't want to be separated from their children, and so a Guardian was assigned for protection until they reached adulthood. Made sense, in a way, especially after Ianto heard of the plot designed to kidnap Jean-Luc when he was a mere toddler with a few odd quirks like levitating his stuffed monkey.

Stephen had been a Guardian until his charge, Benicia Garcia-Carriôn Martínez, had turned 18 and turned down any further protection from Avalon. Then he began teaching and mentoring at Avalon, a change he most welcomed.

Ianto swirled his glass of Scotch, relieved Lana hadn't poured a third shot as the tequila heated him through, making his thoughts soft and fuzzy around the edges. Another would probably have sent him crashing to the floor, but now an evening of crisps and scotch (and dancing) would be the perfect end to an all around shitty day.

"And so I said to her, 'nice shoes, wanna shag?' She said no! I know, couldn't believe it myself till I realized they were Prada knockoffs and so I thanked her."

Wincing and using his glass to point out the man on stage, Ianto turned to Lana, "who's the new guy?"

"Calls himself Stanley, but in this place? Is probably a lie."

The gimmick at Lana's, other than Lana herself, was the entertainment prior to the pub-atmosphere changing into a club in the late evening. There was an open invitation for burgeoning comedians to try out and fine-tune their stand-up before heading out to the harsher crowds of comic clubs in Cardiff and London. No mockery of the act or the comedian was allowed (a harsh penalty existed for those who did -- an impromptu turn on stage to perform their own act -- Ianto had seen it happen twice; it wasn't pretty), and reviewers were given free drinks. A nice deal for all, especially since the artists brought friends, referred others, and basically spread the word around town. Free drinks were always a nice added bonus. The club typically filled by 7:30-8pm as the acts wound down and then the music started.

Lana's, Ianto's perfect escape.

Another customer came in; Ianto heard the bell over the door chime. He turned to allow Lana the chance to attend them and leaned his elbows back on the bar, taking a sip from his scotch as he was (not) entertained by the comedian called Stanley. A glass thumped beside him, Ianto glanced and saw that it was a glass of water and he smiled. Lana always knew. Probably some poor sod about to fall off the wagon. Wouldn't they be surprised when their money wasn't good at Lana's, though they were welcome to stay.

'You knew."

The voice, strong and certain in its conviction, carrying an undertone of regret was a familiar one, and Ianto knew then it wasn't just any customer. He wondered how Jack had found him, but it wouldn't surprise him if Jack had tracked his mobile or his car. Either way, Jack was there and demanding answers Ianto loathed giving. He didn't have to question what Jack was asking. He knew just as Jack knew his answer. But the admission seemed important to Jack, important enough that he had followed Ianto to the club and demanded Ianto play this little game. "I suspected."

"And you didn't tell anyone?"

Oh, he told people. He told his superior, and then when the response had been negative, had broken all Torchwood protocol and gone to Yvonne herself with the suspicion. He'd been kindly backed out of the office, then limited to answering support questions as his daily duties. It hadn't lasted long; Torchwood One itself hadn't lasted much longer.

He still believed the guilt was why Yvonne, the Cyberman, had let him go.

With a sharp, bitter laugh tinged with exhaustion from his life and the day itself, Ianto stared at the stage and never looked at the man looming next to him. He knew what Jack would look like, and for the moment, Ianto couldn't quit handle the remorse and pity he'd see written in every line of Jack's expression. "Duty for Queen and country, sir."

Jack, thankfully, said nothing. He sat down heavily on the barstool. Ianto guessed the day was as exhausting for him as it had been for Ianto. He heard Lana moving behind him, pouring a drink. Ianto watched and nearly snorted his scotch through his nose when he realized what Lana had put in front of Jack as she swapped away his water.

A L'il Johnson. Maybe she was a better empath than she let on. Or, given the wink she gave Ianto, a better friend.

"My girlfriend, it takes her two hours in the morning to get ready. Two hours! In that amount of time, I could shower, wank, dress, wank, eat breakfast, go out and find a lower maintenance girlfriend. I told her this, and you know what she said? If it weren't for the time spent getting ready, she'd've had to have sex twice before brekkie and she couldn't claim that many headaches without seeing a specialist."

Jack opened his mouth to comment on the comedian, Ianto presumed, but Lana hit his shoulder, pointing to the sign behind her. "Mock the artist, become the mocked," the sign warned, and Lana looked like she meant it. Obediently, Jack refrained and made a face as he sipped his drink and Ianto couldn't stop the grin fueled by alcohol and amusement at what Jack didn't know. Ianto wondered if this was Jack's way of showing contrition, hanging about in a club that was not precisely his style and drinking a vile drink to appease the beautiful woman behind the bar and make amends with Ianto. What he had said back in his office had been uncalled for, but he hadn't known any details; he still knew very few.

The place was filling quickly, packing the upper level as well as the ground floor, nearing the time when the club would open and the dancing began. At one time Ianto had sworn he would never dance in front of his boss, but he felt a certain degree of ownership of the place, or at least his presence at the club. This was his place. Jack had merely followed to ask questions he already knew the answers to. Fuck it, if Jack wanted to stay, then he could stay, Ianto wasn't forcing him, nor would he allow the night to end in any way other than the way he had initially planned it. Drinks. Dancing. Perhaps a quick thing in the loo with one of the many faces who came and went.

Ianto finished his glass of scotch as Lana was pouring him another, making the exchange with a quick peck on his cheek. "Don't worry, love. We'll show him," was whispered in his ear, the move drawing Jack's eye who looked curious, but Ianto had made friends with alcohol tonight, he was rather beyond giving a fuck about what Jack thought.

And then a thought crossed his mind and Ianto was suddenly very, very afraid of what Lana had planned.

"Good evening, boys and girls!" Lana stood on stage as the last comic act packed his things and headed off the stage. She held a microphone in hand as she yelled above the din of the growing crowd, doing the same schpeel she did every night. "Who's ready to dance all fucking night?" The crowd shouted in reply, earning a snort from Jack. Ianto couldn't help but be amused as well. Mob mentality could sometimes be a funny, funny thing.

"You come here often?"

Jack's question didn't even phase Ianto. The lights had dimmed and he could almost forget that the man sitting beside him wasn't his boss but a complete stranger, making small talk before the festivities began. He yelled back over the crowd, "everyone needs an escape."

That earned a look from Jack while Lana picked up again. "You heard 'em, Skeet. Get the fucking music started!" The crowd roared again, making Jack laugh and Ianto down his scotch. He spotted Lana snaking her way through the crowd on the dance floor, tables and chairs hastily removed by her trained crew, the deep thumping bass rhythm throbbing away as everyone parted for the lady of the house to have the first dance with the person of her choosing. And not for the first time, it appeared she was honing in on Ianto.

This time though, she looked like she meant every shimmy and every shake of her leather-clad hips. That begged the question what she had meant before she'd gone out to announce the dancing. Ianto filed that away in the "to be analyzed in the morning" portion of his memory and stood as she danced right up to him, pulling him along by his tie. He quickly shucked his suit coat, throwing it behind him and hoping it hit the vicinity of the bar -- he rather liked that coat.

The music was living inside him now, day and life forgotten as the need to feel and move gripped his blurred thoughts and spun them on their way. Lana was in rare form, guiding him into her dance and touching far more than he remembered her touching. Ever. He caught her as she slid down his thigh, able to do nothing more than hold on as she ground herself against him to the dull roar of the crowd. Sex on a dance floor. Something new, but Ianto could go with it, especially given the grin on her face as he jerked her to standing, bodies flush as their hips danced, tempo tripping on itself and speeding downhill faster than Ianto believed it possible to move.

"He's watching." Lana grinned as she pulled away, and it hit Ianto a little late she believed Jack was interested in him. Or vice versa.

"He's my boss, minx." She laughed as Ianto ran his hands down her hips to capture the music, fueled as she to put on a display. It was the first dance, after all, an inspired performance.

The music abruptly changed and it was a free-for-all to the floor, Ianto and Lana separating to grab new partners as the night truly began. Ianto danced, losing himself among men and women, some dressed in nothing more than skin and thread; on others Ianto could feel the supple warmth of leather. He touched and was touched, enjoying his escape into a place where, on the surface, one was wanted as much as one wished to be wanted.

A man in shiny silver and black latched on to him at some point, making it clear against Ianto's hip what his intention was. Shirt sleeves rolled and cotton sticking uncomfortably from sweat and heat, Ianto felt relieved to flee the floor and have that quick thing in the loo that had been on his agenda for the evening. He took a quick glance at the bar, curious if Jack was still watching and rather hoping he'd left; it was one thing to think 'to hell with it' and another to walk off with his choice for the evening in front of his boss. Not seeing him, Ianto moved off the floor, people replacing them as the man in silver and black followed. He wasn't bad looking, lanky with a head of spiked black-green hair. Legal was the only question floating across Ianto's tongue and before he could answer, the other man caught up, his appearance older than he had initially looked. Lana's pulled all types, and Ianto supposed a man in his 40s with black-green hair was coming for some reason, just as they all were.

Ianto pushed the door open and turned on the light, glad to find an open one; waiting was not something he fancied and usually resulted in a turn outdoors. He turned to draw the other man in when he stopped in surprise, a period military coat behind him worn by a man with dark hair and brilliant blue eyes. Jack pushed him into the loo, turning to lock the door behind them. Ianto was still trying to figure out how to ask where the other man had gone without sounding offensive, and the first thing that crossed his mind as he willed the hard-on tenting his pants to wait just a little longer was, "you don't dance?"

There was no way Jack could have been out there dancing, not with that coat on.

"I waltz."

And they moved in counts of three, shuffling back until Ianto hit the back wall, surprising him even as he fought to catch up with events and the blown-out pupils darkening Jack's eyes. The hand against the wall, near his ear, brought clarity and Ianto believed he shouldn't have been as aroused by the situation as he was.

"You put on quite a show, Ianto."

So Lana was right. She'd gloat, but Ianto would get over it.

Ianto moved to get in a better position against the wall; he'd lost his footing as he slid against it and wasn't in the best spot. He could smell the whiskey on Jack's breath -- god he must have drank the entire glass of the vodka, lime and whiskey concoction. The fact that he had out of whatever misplaced guilt or apology was playing in Jack's favor. As Ianto moved, he brushed against Jack's cock and that was all it took to break whatever tableau was holding the pair motionless.

Jack's groan spurred Ianto's fingers as they frantically fumbled with Jack's belt, grating his knuckles on the metal before finally working the stubborn buckle. Ianto dodged a kiss, offering his neck instead as he felt hands tug and pull at the waistband of his own trousers. They couldn't move fast enough, for all Ianto could still hear the dull throb of the club behind the door, settling into his body and driving the pace.

Jack's erection was free, Ianto hadn't expect modern boxer briefs but he wasn't going to question the lack of period underwear. "Fuck...tell me you have a condom," Ianto ground out as Jack licked and nipped his way along Ianto's collarbone, his tie and shirt loosened in the tugging and pulling at clothing. He cursed his own lack of foresight, but sex had been the furthest thing from his mind when he'd left the Hub and arrived at Lana's. And now he was asking his boss if he had a condom to shag him senseless against the tiled wall of a club. He would have mocked himself if Jack hadn't just squeezed his cock, the touch nearly buckling his knees.

"Unprepared?" Jack's laughter was betrayed by his hands quickly patting his pockets for a condom, successfully waving the foil packet in front of Ianto's eyes. Lana wasn't the only one who acted 18 sometimes. Ianto didn't wait, just turned to face the wall, hands supporting him as his trousers and briefs slid to the floor. This wouldn't work well, but Ianto didn't want to waste time removing his shoes, and then his socks because he'd look ridiculous standing in his white shirt and socks in some Tom Cruise Risky Business mockery. Jack was taking his time, taking far too long for Ianto. He started stroking his own cock, keeping up his interest while Jack took his time and cursed. The origins of the cursing was unknown until two hands squeezed his arse and Ianto swore he heard a "beautiful." That, of course, was ridiculous.

Ianto turned his head enough to see Jack, still wearing his coat, hands on Ianto's arse; he was going to develop a new kink for that long coat if Jack kept it on. "Come on, then." Ianto was out of encouragement now, he'd come by himself if he had to while Jack watched. He really didn't care, not at this point. The time for humiliation was long past, long since he'd humped Jack's leg in the lab. He was hard and horny, and Jack was as well. It was time to actually do something.

He wasn't disappointed when two fingers slicked with god-knew-what slid into him, curling and stretching, and fuck Ianto could feel the wool of Jack's coat scratching over the backs of his thighs and along his cheek as Jack braced himself against the wall. "God, now!" Ianto demanded, back arching to better angle himself despite the pants constraining his ankles.

"You called me Jack once."

That moment, so long ago, fleeting as he'd said it and Ianto hadn't actually thought Jack had noticed. But thinking of that day was not helping his libido. He thought instead of not crashing into Jack's chin as he crooked his fingers, scratching over Ianto's prostate and if he wasn't already strained to hold on a bit longer, he quickly reached that point. "Jack. Fuck me now." Ianto growled as he pushed back, nearly overbalancing when Jack's hand vanished. He heard Jack's muttered "pushy" but could feel the other man's arm vibrating as it braced against the wall. Pushy, but Jack didn't seem to mind. Then Ianto's perception of the wall suddenly changed, hands skidding up the tile before he could accommodate Jack's slide into him, deep and hot and fuck if Jack wasn't taking him seriously. Ianto pushed back, getting his hands under him again, ready this time.

Slick sounds of skin, sweat and lube were all Ianto heard, counter-timed with soft huffs as he fought to keep his purchase on the wall. Jack was silent, though there was an occasional curse and once, once Ianto swore he heard his name. It could have been "let go" as well, and Ianto could feel that building inside, too. He gave his cock two hard pulls just as Jack's coat swept over his legs again, and then he was coming against the wall, muffling his shout against the cotton of his shirt sleeve. Jack didn't last any longer, body bowed over Ianto with his final thrust. Ianto could feel his knees threatening to give, but Jack held him up, pinning him against the wall in what Ianto hoped was not the spot he'd just come.

"Fuck."

He could feel Jack's nod of agreement as he rested his forehead on Ianto's shoulder, catching his breath. An unexpected outcome to the evening, but one Ianto couldn't fault. Tomorrow was just another day, but the evening smelled of sex, Jack, and the eventual cream Ianto would have to apply to the wool burns on the back of his thighs. Ianto could feel his control returning, seeping along his sated limbs like the comforting smell of pipe tobacco. This evening he had shagged in the loo of Lana's. Tomorrow would just be another day.

He could handle another day. It was the todays that made Ianto's life difficult.

***

Next story in series - Shades of Ianto - Series 1.

• Main Torchwood slash page
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