Impressions (Chapter 8)
Rating: PG (may eventually be NC-17)
Warnings: Ianto-angst, the Doctor being (subtly) angry, spoilers for Army of Ghosts.
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of their respective owners. I am in no way associated with the creators, and no copyright infringement is intended.
A/N: Me? Slow at finishing the chapter I started last week? Never! *whistles guiltily*
(On a different note, Torchwood Four’s motto [and picking that out is one of the things that took me so damned long] is taken from the fourth Eclogue of Virgil, line 5, and I'm fairly certain my translation is correct/at least in the ballpark. Then again, my Latin’s fairly rusty, so feel free to correct me if I'm wrong.)
Chapter Eight
There’s something utterly unsettling about guiding the Doctor through Torchwood Tower’s main lobby and having not one person glance at them. Ianto is tense and a bit jumpy, ready to throw himself to the floor to avoid the guns he knows the guards inside are carrying, but he also remembers the Doctor’s words, and keeps his thoughts as positive as he’s able.
Torchwood One hasn't changed all that much since Ianto was last there (there before? Time traveling is always hell on the verb tenses), so he’s able to guide them to a relatively out of the way conference room and lock the rest of the Tower out.
“All right,” he says firmly, turning to the Doctor. “Where do we start?”
The Doctor blinks at him, as though caught off guard. Then, with a grin, he flaps his hands and says, “Well, you seem to know where you're going; let’s just keep that up, yes?”
It takes a great deal of effort not to slap a palm over his eyes and hold it there until the world goes back to being (relatively) sane. Over nine centuries old, and the Doctor is still flying by the seat of his pants.
For the love of little green apples.
“Right,” Ianto repeats, this time wearily. “I saw a directory on our way in. The main science areas are three floors down.”
*.~.*.~.*
Ianto is not nearly as happy being back in Torchwood Tower as he makes it seem.
(Admittedly, this is already fairly unhappy, but it’s even worse than it appears.)
Fear bubbles in his gut like acid, and there's cold terror spreading through each of his limbs. Ianto keeps his breathing even only through careful concentration as he guides the Doctor through One’s rabbit warren of halls.
Of all the places Ianto could be in the world, this is the second to last on his list. Only being back in Four’s grasp could be worse.
The Doctor is watching him as they walk, head tipped a little to one side. Ianto glances at him with a questioning lift of one brow, and the Time Lord stops walking. Because it’s polite, Ianto stops, too, and turns to face him.
Long, startlingly gentle fingers close around his wrist, turning his arm so that the mark is bare. “What’s this, then?” the Doctor asks. “People keep looking at it like it’s something terrifying.”
“Like I'm terrifying,” Ianto corrects, though he doesn't pull away. Surely, if anyone will be non-judging, it’s this man. “It’s the symbol for a conscript of Torchwood Four, someone of partial alien descent raised to be an agent and use their heritage to further the Institute’s aims.”
It takes a moment for the full meaning of his words to settle between them, but then the Doctor’s fingers become iron bands around his wrist, and a fearful darkness fills his eyes.
This is the Time Lord, Ianto realizes, swallowing down an involuntary gasp. This is the ancient being who destroyed the Daleks and his own people in one blow.
“Torchwood Four?” the Doctor repeats sharply.
“Yes,” Ianto whispers, even though it’s just barely a question.
Brown eyes stay fixed on him, unwavering, as the Doctor puts the pieces together. “Ah,” he says after a moment. “You’re from the future. And your people…the intuitive psychics of Bandraginus V. I should have realized sooner.”
He lets go of Ianto’s arm and heads down the corridor with quick steps, the conversation clearly over.
Ianto stares after him for another moment, wondering.
It was almost as if the Doctor hadn’t known about Four.
*.~.*.~.*
Ianto learned to pick a lock before he learned the Earth was round, so it’s the work of a half-second to break open a scientist’s locker and steal a white lab coat-fortunately lacking any sort of identification tags, as from what Ianto remembers Torchwood Four’s Handlers aren’t keen on them.
“Here,” he tells the Doctor, shoving it at him. “Put this on, and if anyone asks questions about us, look down your nose at them and act arrogant. They'll assume you're my Handler.”
The Doctor opens his mouth to ask what is probably the obvious question, but after a quick look at Ianto’s face he subsides and tugs the coat on over his suit. It looks a bit odd, Ianto thinks, looking at him critically, but it will probably pass. No one ever wants to spend time looking at the Handlers.
For himself, Ianto simply keeps his sleeve rolled up above his elbow, the interlocking hexagons of Torchwood’s symbol, along with the words ‘Magnus ab integro sæclorum nascitur ordo,’ forming Torchwood Four’s mark.
Almost as though he can't help himself, the Doctor touches the letters, and Ianto murmurs, “’The great order of the ages is born anew,’ if I remember correctly. I believe they're referring to the British Empire.”
The Time Lord’s mouth is a little thinner and tighter than normal, but he follows Ianto through the halls without a word.
*.~.*.~.*
There is a man hurrying down the passage, occupied with his tablet. Rajesh Singh, his nametag declares him, and the fact that he’s important enough to have a nametag draws Ianto’s attention immediately. He follows the scientist, the Doctor trailing a step behind, to a heavy door with an electronic lock.
(The Doctor’s sonic screwdriver is incredibly useful, and Ianto promises himself that he won't have a single other disparaging thought about it.)
There’s no time to make a plan, and Ianto isn’t sure he could even if there was-he’s nervous and wary and far, far too angry (with himself, with Torchwood in general, with Four in particular for making him into this) for thinking sensibly.
“Follow my lead,” he tells the Doctor, and as the doors open, he strides in without a single attempt to hide.
Singh is standing in front of a computer terminal, and Ianto walks straight up to him, face blank the way Four always taught him, back stiff and body language throwing off a thousand warnings of DO NOT TOUCH in flashing, knee-high letters.
“Dr. Singh?” he asks coolly.
The man looks at him, glances down at his arm, and then looks back up with narrowing eyes.
He knows. Not everyone in Torchwood does, about Four, but those in power who are corrupted enough to look the other way always do.
“Yes?” he asks-carefully, stepping back a little, because people are always wary of Four’s agents.
Ianto nods shortly to him. “I'm Jones, and this is Smith.” Anyone who hears that will likely assume both names are false, which amuses Ianto greatly and furthers their cause at the same time. “We were asked to look at the-”
“Yes, yes, of course.” Singh cuts him off, and while there’s a faint twist of contemptuous anger to his mouth, there's also relief in his eyes, that someone else might have answers. “It’s over there. I’ll clear my people out. Don't break anything.” With a wave of his hand, he dismisses both of them, summons the other scientists in the room, and stalks out.
The door closes softly behind him.
“Well,” the Doctor says after a moment. “That's probably the easiest sneaking I've ever done.” He sounds like he doesn't know whether to be disappointed by that, or happy.
Ianto rolls his eyes and waves him on towards the great sphere hanging at the far end of the room, trying not to look at it. Even being in the same room is just about giving him hives.
“Go,” he orders, fighting down a spark of amusement.
Judging by the grin the Doctor gives him before he goes bounding off, he fails.
(Somehow, Ianto can't bring himself to mind.)
*.~.*.~.*
Ten minutes later, neither of them is smiling.
‘A Void ship’ echoes through the air far more loudly than it has any right to.
Ianto and the Doctor stare at each other for a moment, both grim, and Ianto reaches for his phone.
“Right,” he says decisively. “I’ll call Jack.”