displaced, misplaced ( narrative, closed )
January 1st, 2009. Ianto Jones wakes up with a hangover. The prior night's revelry (which he can't exactly remember) is clearly to blame, and he swallows against the dry thickness in his mouth as he rolls onto his side. He edges closer to the warmth of the body beside him, reaching for the sharp angle of Jack's hip, intent on greeting his lover properly on the first day of the new year.
The woman in the bed beside him shifts, turns and regards him with pretty green eyes and a tousled mess of chestnut hair.
Ianto reels back and drags half the covers off the bed in his haste to get out of it. He hears her call out to him as the bathroom door slams behind.
"Ianto, honey, are you all right?"
*
It isn't a dream, it's a nightmare, and however much he'd like to wake up, it's terribly real.
His name is Ianto Jones. He's twenty-seven-years-old. Works as an English teacher at a well-respected school. Has a daughter, Alis, age four. A wife, Gwyndolyn, pregnant with their second child. He has a house and a mortgage and a Skoda parked on the curb, a cat named Myfanwy and a goldfish named Sam. The wedding band on his left ring finger isn't titanium, it's gold, thin and cheap. The scrapbooks put together the pieces of a life he hasn't lived: married at twenty-one, a father at twenty-three. There are pictures of family barbecues, he's relieved to find Fred (longer-haired and strangely more effeminate) and Dafydd (without Lauren, he notes). He nearly chokes upon finding the clipping of his - no, not his - mother's obituary from three years ago. A mysterious accident, the accompanying newspaper article notes.
He's not in his own body. The sideburns are shortened, hair overall longer and more unkempt. For the first time in his life, Ianto finds extra weight in the form of minute love handles, a sign of inactivity. There are three basic suits in the closet: black, blue, and tan, requisite for weddings, funerals, and job interviews. He gets into a pair of jeans (which seem to compose more of the wardrobe than he'd like) and a jumper, and uses the mobile phone that isn't really his to dial Jack's number.
"Hello?" A man's voice, unfamiliar, answers.
"I'm looking for Jack Harkness."
"Sorry, mate. You've got the wrong number."
*
This isn't the way it was supposed to be. They were supposed to have the pterosaur back in her cage in time to share a midnight kiss. Ianto was supposed to wake up this morning curled around Jack; he'd planned to convince him to linger an hour or two longer, before lazily returning to the Hub to continue their work. He wonders desperately, now, what Jack is doing, if his lover is terribly worried, if this world's Ianto is in his place. He wants to break down from the pressure and frustration, to demand an explanation of someone. But he's all alone here, except for a woman he's supposed to love and a little girl who calls him Daddy.
Ianto has been forgiven for his confusion from the night before, Gwyn teasing him lightly about his alcohol consumption. He makes a pot of coffee (drip, there doesn't seem to be a press), and tries to soothe his nerves with the inadequate Tesco brew. He goes through the telephone directory while he ponderously sips the coffee, looking for Cooper or Harper, Sato or Harkness or even Costello. He finds Harper, O, but doesn't try to call.
Instead he grabs a jacket and car keys that aren't his, and tells the wife who isn't his that he'll be back in an hour or two.
He hopes against hope that he'll find what he's looking for.