Fic: Three Times Ianto Jones Met James Bond, Including One Time He Remembered It [Complete, 1/2]
Title: Three Times Ianto Jones Met James Bond, Including One Time He Remembered It
Author: heddychaa
Pairings: TimeAgent!Jack/Ianto, Jack/John
Rating: R
Genre: Heist / Thriller / Black Comedy, all of it timey-wimey
Disclaimer: Torchwood's characters, concepts, and events belong to their respective owners, including but not limited to Russell T Davies and the BBC. This is a work of fan-appreciation and no profit is being made.
Warnings: So much wink-wink nudge-nudge humour, you may wind up with a permanent twitch somewhere. UST by the bucketload. Gun violence.
Summary: Disgruntled university grad and professional layabout Ianto Jones had gone to the bar on his last night in Cardiff with the intention to get pissed. What he didn’t expect was to get tangled up with an international superspy cum antiques dealer cum black market buyer cum intergalactic conman in the middle of a relationship crisis. And he definitely didn’t expect to end the night in another man's blood-spattered suit.
A/N: Beta-d by the absolutely amazing azn_jack_fiend who read and re-read it a hundred million times and even helped me with the plotty bits when I was stuck.
Three Times Ianto Jones Met James Bond, Including One Time He Remembered It
5097
The first sign that it’s past time for them to cut ties: they’ve started picking matching aliases. Sitting on opposite ends of the pod bed, hunched up against its curved walls with their legs intertwined, his partner’s narrow foot running scandalously up the length of his calf, he says, “I think I should be James Bond, for this next one.”
His partner twitches a brow, and the foot draws back a little. He makes a petulant face, sucking his cheeks in like he’s tasted something sour. “And what does that make me? Miss Moneypenny?”
He breaks out into a big smile, clasping the foot, pulling it up and trapping it between his thighs where he can rub his partner’s toes in tiny firm circles. “I was thinking more along the lines of Pussy Galore,” he says, devilishly. The foot he’s holding pushes forward, trying to heel him in the gut. He catches it in the butts of his palms. “Alec Trevelyan?” he tries. “Now he was a bastard, remember?”
“I do remember,” his partner admits. “But I don’t see why you want to be James Bond. Your accent reads American, to them. Exact opposite of James Bond, American. I should be James Bond.”
“I thought of it first. I’m in charge. I have the bigger wrist strap. I’m James Bond.” He raises his eyebrows as if to say, ‘and what’s your response to that perfectly crafted rebuttal?’ Bigger wrist strap indeed!
Alec can read his expressions perfectly, and he merely sighs into the massage. “You win again, James,” he says, all petulant resignation.
James brings Alec’s foot up to face level, kisses the arch messily, watching Alec’s eyes as he does. He trails the kisses up to his ankle, up to his calf. Alec spreads his legs, knees knocking the sides of the pod, to accommodate him crawling forward. As he leans forward, covering him with his body, he murmurs, in his best Sean Connery, “James Bond always wins.” The imitation doesn’t sound half bad, to James. Alec just chuckles indulgently into his collarbone.
2003
Drinking a Lucozade sprawled out on the couch, half-watching the film playing in the background. Rhiannon’s in the kitchen, slamming the cupboards as though she wants to bring the whole place down with the shockwaves. He flicks his eyes to the screen, pointedly trying to block out the sound of her voice.
“And what was wrong with the job at the fucking coffee shop, then?” she shouts, and he realizes she’s standing in the doorway that connects the kitchen and the living room. He glances over at her, eyes moving slow like a drunk’s. He’s not going to dignify it with a response. She’s hysterical. He rolls his eyes back to the telly, where Bond, James Bond, is ordering his martini shaken-not-stirred.
“I know you think all this,” and she gestures her arms around her living room as she says it, “is all beneath you, Ianto, but it’s a bloody paycheque, isn’t it, and that’s all we’re in the position to ask for right now.” We. Like they’re in this thing together. Like they’re a family, still.
He’s not going to tell her about the bus ticket to London that he bought with the last tip payout before he quit. He’s not going to give her a chance to fight with him about it. He’s going to disappear tomorrow morning at five AM, and by the time she wakes up, he’ll be long gone, his duffel bag and his dirty laundry and his paperbacks all disappeared from the living room. All he’ll leave by way of a note will be his last paycheque from the shop with his signature on the back to endorse it. She really could use the money.
Fuck knows what he’s going to do when he gets there, but anything’s got to be better than here. Plans, flats, jobs set up in advance, that’s what Rhiannon would worry about, her and her fat stupid husband and her snotty grabby-fisted kids. Your niece and nephew, some guilty sensible part of him says, but he pushes it back. He needs to be angry to do what he has to do.
But Rhiannon isn’t done with him yet. She comes into the living room and kneels in front of the sofa, blocking the view to the telly. She puts a hand on his cheek, forcing him to look her in the eye. “I know you don’t want to be here,” she says, motherly now. She’s still annoyed, he knows, but she’s doing her best to take the high road, be the bigger person, all that shit she reads in her parenting books. Right now she’s “getting on his level”. If he was even three years younger he’d probably smack her upside her smug head. He avoids her gaze instead. “This isn’t what you imagined your life being, is it, when you left for uni?” She says it soft, tracing her knuckles over his cheekbone, running the tips of her fingers along his hairline like his mam did for him when he was little. “But it’ll get better. You won’t be here forever, you’ll see. You won’t work odd jobs forever. You’re too smart for that.”
Oddjob. Now there was a Bond villain. He tries to peer round Rhiannon’s head. Bond is seducing a woman, wearing a white tuxedo jacket; he can see a glimpse of his bent elbow. Roger Moore, camp as he was, probably got three times the women as any of the actors who came before or after him. Ianto must remember that.
“But until then, if you’re going to be staying with me and Johnny-god knows I’m happy to have you Ianto, and I’ll never turn my own family out onto the streets-you need to earn your keep. I need you to work, and stay working. Pride has nothing to do with it. We have bills to pay.”
He sits up, chugs the Lucozade down. It’s sweet and sticky and it isn’t what he wants.
“Tomorrow morning Johnny says he’ll drive you down to that place that does the day work. Construction and the like. It’s not great, but it’s better than nothing. Until you find something long term.” Something permanent, she means to say, but doesn’t. He can see it in her eyes, the way her jaw snaps around it.
He stands, not saying anything to her. He has nothing to say to her. Tomorrow morning he’ll be gone.
“Ianto are you listening to me?”
He grabs his windbreaker draped over the back of the sofa. Shrugs into it as he walks to the front door of the flat.
“Ianto where are you going? It’s nearly bloody midnight!”
He opens the door and steps out into the night air.
They blink into existence standing on a building rooftop overlooking a glittering bay. A cold breeze nips at their cheeks.
“Have you been here, before?” asks Alec. They simultaneously flip their wrist straps, check their vortex manipulators.
“What, Cardiff?” James replies. “Don’t think so. Or do you mean now? When are we?”
“Twenty-first century. And yeah. That one.”
They’ve both made frequent trips to Sol 3 throughout its timeline. As a Level 5 planet, it requires a bit more protection of its timeline than most others, and, at the same time, it seems to invite more exploitation and meddling than is usual for that same reason.
“You know me, Alec. Always preferred the late-nineteenth, early-twentieth centuries, myself. Something about men all buttoned up in stiff collars and uniforms. Oh, and mutton chops,” he replies. He surveys the scene, screwing up his eyes as he peers down at a warning message on his vortex manipulator.
“Ugh, facial hair,” Alec says, and from the sound of it James can tell he’s letting his tongue fall out of his mouth in disgust. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, anyway. Everybody knows the eighteenth century is where you want to be. Revolutions! Redcoats! Philosophers!”
“Powdered wigs,” James counters, unconvinced.
“Hellfire clubs,” Alec replies. “The golden age of piracy. Beautiful . . . pale . . . breasts. What do you have in the late eighteen-hundreds, bustles?”
“French postcards,” James answers with a shrug.
“Oh, those are nice,” Alec agrees. James can actually hear his orgasmic little eyeroll. James has brought him back sheafs of them as souvenirs, in their relative past.
“My vortex manipulator’s displaying a paradox warning,” he says at length, back to business.
“Mine too. For you.” Alec looks over at him, shrugs. “We are standing on a huge rift in time and space. Maybe that’s what’s setting it off. You said you haven’t been to Cardiff before, right?”
“Before. I might come here in the future. We might be crossing my timeline right now without even knowing it.”
“Well, your future self will know to avoid you, then. We’re not giving up on this score for a sodding paradox alarm.” He turns on the heel of his boot, marching toward the roof access door and drawing his sonic blaster. He fires a hole through the door as he’s still walking and, without missing a step, ducks through it. James follows him through, feeling worry itching under his skin.
They thunk down the emergency stairs and into the bowels of the building. Alec’s footsteps are a tumbling clatter, impatient. Annoyed that so soon after arriving there are already problems cropping up, James assumes. Or maybe what he’s calling impatience is actually eagerness, or a mixture of the two. Alec is unpredictable, constantly up-and-down. Reason number two why it’s high time for James to move on.
When they reach ground level, Alec shoots the sonic blaster again, making them a pathway out onto the street. On the street, he looks both ways.
“Left,” James suggests, as random as flipping a coin. Alec turns right.
Reason number three: Alec can be pointlessly defiant at times and it kinda gets on his nerves.
“So,” he asks, following Alec with long, easy strides. His tone is a little bitchier than strictly necessary. “Do you have a plan, exactly, or are you just hoping to stumble across what we’re looking for?”
Alec rounds on him. “Oh, I’m sorry!” he snarls. “I didn’t realize this was official Agency business we were on and I needed to follow protocol. Okay then, Agent Bond, local knowledge assessment. Let’s have it.”
They’re standing right in the middle of a busy pavement, human pedestrians shouldering past them, giving them looks over their odd dress and raised voices. James is annoyed enough to play along. He snaps his heels together, jerks his chin up at attention. “Early twenty-first century Cardiff. Sol 3. Level 5 planet. Notable features: a poorly understood or controlled rift in time and space runs through the city. Intelligence says that the locals have four organizations that may be relevant to Agency dealings: a worldwide military organization called UNIT, and three local branches of an imperial organization called ‘Torchwood’. Both are to be considered only vaguely versed in galactic goings-on. Both are potentially hostile.”
It’s rote memorization, falling out of his mouth without really connecting to any meaning in his mind, the same way he knows the Great War lasted from 1914 to 1918 and resulted in the death of 15 million humans, mostly young males. It was only when he visited, chasing after some idiot pacifist who’d decided that it was within her power and authority to prevent it, that James understood, really understood, what the Great War had really meant, what 15 million dead young males looked like. It looked like mud.
His paradox alarm had went off then, too. He hates visiting Sol 3 for that reason: his vortex manipulator always malfunctions here. Or something. He’s not sure. It doesn’t make any sense. He doesn’t know what happens in his future, or even what could happen in his future to cause this outcome, but every trip he’s made to the twentieth and twenty-first centuries here has resulted in the predictable warnings. It’s a little unnerving. One particularly morbid possibility has him dead and buried here with the still-functioning vortex manipulator strapped to his wrist, sending out its endless signal. Ever since he imagined that possibility, coming here has been like walking on his own grave. A little shudder runs through him.
“Better now?” Alec asks him. “Mister by-the-books? Mister top-of-the-class?”
James snorts. “Just because you couldn’t even remember the star whale incident on the 33rd century test.”
They resume walking. “I remember Liz Ten though,” Alec says, the humour back in his voice.
“Ugh, who could forget her,” James groans, fanning himself.
“When I leave the Agency,” Alec tells him, “I think she’ll be the first monarch I fuck.”
“The first monarch?” James asks. “Who’ll be the first person, just in general?”
“You,” Alec replies, taking no time to think it over. “You when you were seventeen.”
“You’re a pig,” James scolds, laughing. “Wait. You have a prioritized list of monarchs you’re planning on screwing?”
“Maybe. Well yes. Don’t you?”
“Not nearly that organized.”
“Drinks?”
“Thought you’d never ask.”
Ianto is an inch from the bottom of his third pint when two men stomp into the pub like they own the place, talking loud like they’re already drunk. He watches the bouncer sizing them up but ultimately deciding they’re harmless. He watches them take a seat together in a dark corner, sitting too close to be mates, smirking and watching goings on like they’re only in this pub because they’re slumming it. They’re both good looking, in their own distinct ways, both dark-haired, one of them big and bright and James Dean handsome, the other small and dark and sharp, with a pinched, smirking face. Ianto turns back to the bar, finishing his pint in a long, single-minded gulp, trying not to get to hung up on the way he swings to the gayer end of the Kinsey scale when he’s had a few. Nobody likes the morose lonely sod at the pub weeping into his pints, and he doesn’t intend to become him. He’s bad enough after that fight with Rhiannon, he doesn’t need to pile a sexual identity crisis on top of it.
If he ignores them, they’ll go away. He’ll go home, and tomorrow morning everything will be back to normal again. He will be in London, and if his brain decides, stubborn as ever, to get gay on him there, at least it won’t have quite as disastrous of consequences. He tells himself.
Such a fatalist, Ianto Jones, he chides himself in a remarkably dry inner voice. Last night in Cardiff and you’re fancying a threesome with two strange and clearly dangerous-looking men that you met in a pub. Why is he treating his last night here like his last night alive? He orders another pint, switching on a whim to Guinness.
“My Goodness, my Guinness!” someone quotes in a smooth American accent. It’s big-and-bright, standing next to him, one elbow on the bar, flashing him teeth. The James Dean comparison was apt, Ianto realizes now. He’s wearing a tight white t-shirt, faded jeans, beat up brown leather motorcycle boots. Even his brown hair is combed back into a pompadour. It’s not just like he’s wearing clothes he picked up at one of those quirky little vintage shops, though: he looks and feels physically out of place, somehow. Ianto can’t put his finger on it. Maybe it’s the American-ness. Maybe it’s the fact that Ianto’s drunk. When the bartender slides Ianto his Guinness, still settling, Big-and-bright orders two Jack and Cokes, both doubles, watching Ianto out of the corner of his eye.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
God, he smells good. Ianto feels almost embarrassed to be wearing Lacoste.
“Ianto,” he replies, sipping his Guinness slowly, feeling the head coating his upper lip. He gets a little rush at the sight of the other man watching him lick the foam away with a nervous dart of his tongue. The way his eyes widen just a fraction. The slow spreading smile, gone as quick as it came.
“I’m Bond, James Bond,” the other man introduces.
Ianto sputters into his stout.
“Did I . . . say something wrong?” James Bond asks.
“I-is that your idea of a pick up line?” Ianto manages to stutter, tone cut with condescension and disbelief.
James Bond laughs sheepishly, flashes him a very charming smile, more than making up for his gaffe. “I’m sorry. Harper. Harper is my last name. I’m James Harper.”
Not a bad recovery, all things considered, but with a face like that, Ianto assumes he’s gotten away with worse. Like hitting on sullen, drunk Welshmen when his boyfriend is less than ten metres away. The two Jack and Cokes sit on the bartop, completely unnoticed.
“So, Ianto. You come here often?” James asks. God, he’s cheesy. Why doesn’t that bother Ianto more? The smile, maybe. The blue eyes, bright even in the dim pub lighting. The understated muscles of his arms, tightly bound by the t-shirt’s sleeves. The classic white t-shirt, totally unassuming. The way he traces his forefinger along the bartop lazily, brushing his knuckle against Ianto’s bare arm before pulling it away with a coy glance.
Tomorrow Ianto will be in London.
“Do you?” he deflects. He’s hardly going to say “Yeah, it’s only a five minute walk slash stumble back to my sister’s housing estate at the end of the night,” although that would certainly scare him off.
Ianto doesn’t want to scare James off.
“No, I’m just in town on business.”
“And what business would that be?” Another long drink from the Guinness, watching James over the rim of the glass.
“Antiques dealing,” James replies, a sparkle in his eyes.
“Like the Roadshow?” Ianto asks. “I figure I’ve spent enough sick days on the couch, I could probably appraise a dinette set or two.” Now he’s flirting.
“I’m more in the business of weapons and armour,” James says. There’s something devious in his tone.
“You and your partner over there?” Ianto asks, jerking his chin to the table where the dark man sits, his feet up on the table and his hands tucked behind his head. He doesn’t look particularly annoyed to have been abandoned. Now Ianto’s getting in deep, asking arseways in that typical pub fashion if James is single. Why not “Where’s your girlfriend, in the loo?” like he’s heard so many times himself?
James catches on, one eyebrow quirking up playfully. “Just business,” he says. “Unless you’d like us as a package, that is.”
Ianto feels a flush hit his ears. “I-” he stammers. What does he want?
He doesn’t get a chance to reply, because suddenly the dark man is at his shoulder, shoving between him and James and downing both of the Jack and Cokes in breathless swallows.
“Thanks for the drinks, James,” he says in a dry English drawl. “Wish I could say the same for the company.”
James peers around his partner’s body, making apologetic eye contact with Ianto. “My partner. Alec. You’ll have to excuse his manners: he doesn’t have any.”
“That’s rich from you,” Alec counters, and Ianto realizes he smells good, too. Different, but good; spicier, more exotic and demanding than the summery earthiness, the warmth, that radiates off of James. The two of them complement each other perfectly. Not just the smells, but the physicality, the body language, the way they emote, the tones they use to speak.
He finishes his Guinness. “I should be getting going anyway,” he mutters, feeling shameful.
“You don’t have to do that!” James protests, but Alec gives him a censoring look.
“Yes he does. Time for us to go anyway, James. Our item’s on the move.”
James consults a leather-covered watch on his wrist, brow furrowing. “On the move? Where?”
“Dredged up about nine hours ago in the bay, give or take. Right now I’ll say it’s wrapped up in a plastic bag of license plates and beach glass in the front seat of some bloke’s pickup. We have, oh, about three hours to get it out of whatever flotsam and jetsam collection it’s in before Torchwood gets to it first.” The ice in the highball glass tinkles as Alec rolls his wrist, shifting everything around.
“Rival purchasers,” James explains, for Ianto’s benefit. Ianto manages a tight smile, slipping off of the bar stool.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it. Good luck,” he says, and grabs his windbreaker from where it is draped over the bar counter. He shrugs it over his shoulders.
Reason four: freedom to fraternize with the locals. He watches Ianto go, feeling lonely.
He’s gorgeous. Lean and tragic, with a sad face like he’s been slapped one too many times and he’s waiting for another. Lovely eyes, searching for something. Snub nose, no deep truth there, just a cute feature. Everything about him is soft and young and demanding to be kissed. James wants to get up, follow him, bully him into an alley, push him up against the wet bricks and bite his lips until they’re red.
Alec hops into Ianto’s seat, sadistic and cheerful. “Do you have to fall in love everywhere we go?” he asks, knocking over Ianto’s empty Guinness glass with one bony finger. It spins on the bartop, dribbling out a loop. “I just don’t get you sometimes, James. Boys like that, they’re just eye candy. Unwrap, suck on, roll around in your mouth a bit if you’re feeling particularly motivated, spit out.”
It’s a terrible mixed metaphor and it doesn’t make an ounce of sense, but that about sums Alec up. “We don’t have time for him, anyway,” James justifies to himself.
This job needs to be quick and quiet, no mess. If the Time Agency hears what they’re up to, it’ll be a lot more than just a suspension or a slap on the wrist they’re risking. But the payout is more than worth their while. Rumour is, this is an old Time Lord artefact. Whether or not Time Lords even existed is up for debate, but the debate is irrelevant: people will pay a lot of money for anything that has even the remotest possibility of being connected to the ancient and legendary race.
They don’t have long, though. As long as it’s in the hands of the 21st century nobody who currently possesses it, they can con their way in and be well on their way long before the timelines start to shift and the Agency starts nosing around. Once Torchwood gets a hold of it, though, it’s gone. There’s no stealing it from them, no sleight of hand, at least not without causing a huge (noticeable, memorable, identifiable) temporal mess. And if the artefact does stay on its predestined course, it’s due to sit in Torchwood’s vaults for a few pointless years before it’s permanently destroyed. What a waste.
But not if they have anything to say about it.
“So, any plans on how we’re going to find this mystical plastic bag of flotsam and jetsam? Before Torchwood does? And on their own home territory?” The task suddenly feels monumental. James flags down the bartender for a drink, since his first one wound up in Alec’s hands.
“Scan for alien tech?” Alec suggests with a shrug. Normally the easiest solution on a Level 5 planet. Fair enough. James gives it a try. Purses his lips.
“Any way we can filter these results?” he asks. He chugs down the Jack and Coke the bartender left for him, eyes riveted to the screen of his vortex manipulator.
“Filter them? Using what criteria?”
“Any criteria at all. ‘Smaller than a breadbox’. ‘Manufactured before year 20,000’. ‘Made to withstand extreme heat’. ‘Occasionally mistaken for a sex toy’. There’s literally thousands of instances of alien tech in this city, Alec. Thousands.”
“The rift.” The realization dawns on him, and he’s not pleased about it.
“Spitting things out in every direction,” James concludes.
“Well, shit.” He furrows his brow.
“We could always investigate them all one by one?”
“I hate you.”
“Or! We know that whoever’s got it gets in touch with Torchwood somehow, right? Tonight. So we listen to the chatter and wait for that call, then when we know where the call’s coming from we put in an opposing bid. Steal the artefact right out from under Torchwood’s noses.”
Alec narrows his eyes, plucking an ice cube from his glass and popping it into his mouth. James watches him roll it around on his tongue thoughtfully. “I think you’re letting that quaint little ‘antique dealer’ story go to your head, with that one. We came here to steal the thing, not buy it.” James shrugs. “And it still doesn’t solve the problem of the fact that then we’re right back to square one of how much is too much for Torchwood to know about the alternate future they’re missing out on before the timelines get fucked and we end up with that smarmy bitch Indigo stuffing a gun down our throats? She always did have it out for me. Just because I shot her partner.”
A smirk creeps onto James’ face as he listens to Alec ramble, and he looks over his shoulder to the door of the bar. “Well, I would be really worried about that possibility, Alec, except for while you were sulking in the corner I just found us the perfect fall guy.” He spins his tumbler so that the ice cubes twinkle in the neon light.
“Oh, I love you,” Alec gushes, and his molars crunch down on what’s left of the ice cube he’d been sucking on with a merciless grin.
Reason five: can’t make up his mind on his feelings. Either that, or possible short-term memory loss from too much heavy drinking.
He’s only just left the bar when he hears footsteps on the pavement behind him, in no great hurry to catch up. He doesn’t turn to see who it is, because he knows. Soon, the footsteps fall into rhythm with his own, a shoulder brushing intimately, casually, against his.
“I haven’t been entirely truthful,” James says.
“Oh?” Ianto replies. No, really? he thinks in that bitter drunken voice. James is alone, though. No following footsteps of his ‘partner’. How more awkward is this going to get? Maybe it would have been less awkward to just have stayed on Rhiannon’s couch on his last night in Cardiff, listening to her and Johnny through the wall fucking at two AM like bandits.
“I’m not really an antiques dealer,” James says.
“Well,” Ianto sputters, “I assumed as much. You don’t exactly look the part.”
When he doesn’t ask like a curious little boy meeting his first fireman, James pipes up all on his own. “I’m a black market buyer. My partner and I, we work for a rich Anonymous to buy things that can’t be purchased the usual way.” Ianto keeps up his brisk pace, although he’s no longer walking in the direction of Rhiannon’s.
“And you’re telling me this why?” Not a good foundation for a relationship, lies. A perfectly acceptable foundation for a one night stand, however.
“Well here’s the thing. We had this deal we were supposed to make. This item we were supposed to buy. But it fell through. The seller wants to go with the other buyer.”
“Torchwood, you mean,” Ianto supplies, wanting, for some reason, to prove he isn’t some idiot kid. That he can keep up.
“Exactly. Well here’s the thing. My partner and I, we’re not too keen on going back empty handed. In fact, you could say we can’t go back empty handed. So you can see our conundrum.” Ianto glances over at him. He still looks handsome, even out of the flattering bar lighting. He has a remarkably honest face for a criminal. He supposes that comes in handy. “And the truth is,” James continues, “Torchwood has no idea what they’re even bidding on. It’s of no value to them. Not like it is to us.”
“So you’re going to steal it from them,” Ianto finishes.
“No, we’re going to con them. A three man con, to be specific. So tell me, Ianto. You look like the kind of man who needs a little excitement in his life. Interested in making some money tonight?”
They are standing on the pavement together, Ianto with his hands stuffed into his pockets, James with his hands on his hips, smiling that brilliant smile, the neon of a 24 hour chemist’s lighting the plains of his face. He looks . . . exciting. A little dangerous. Like he legitimately understands what Ianto has been going through and wants to help. That’s impossible, of course, just a romantic little daydream on Ianto’s part that the one stranger he meets by coincidence is the one person to be willing and able to give him what he needs. He watches too many films.
Tomorrow morning he’ll be in London.
He crosses his arms over his chest. “Okay,” he says, putting on his most bored-suspicious-impatient-don’t-waste-my-time voice, “I’m listening. You have five minutes.”
James grins. “Okay, but just one question. Do they start now, or when we get to my hotel? Because if they start now, we’re going to have to sprint.”
“I don’t know,” Ianto says. “You look like you want to sprint back to your hotel with me regardless.” He finds himself smiling, a little.
“What, and be out of breath already when I get there?” Ianto feels James’ shoulder bump against his playfully.
They start to walk. James tells him it’s his first time in Cardiff; tells him about his many visits to London and about one memorable trip to Liverpool. He tells unflattering stories about his sour-faced partner. All of the stories sound disjointed, somehow, as though he’s patching them together, or leaving out crucial details. Finally, as though he’s been waiting all night, he sucks in a breath through his teeth and says, “So have you ever seen, I dunno, a guy who looked like me? Here in Cardiff?”
“Like a brother?” Ianto asks.
“Like . . . a twin . . . brother,” James says, stuttering out the words like William Shatner.
Well, Ianto did like him because he was “interesting”. Long lost siblings slash escaped government clones would certainly tick that box.
“No, nobody,” he replies, truthfully.
“Worth a shot-- well, this is it.” They’ve stopped at the entrance to one of the dingiest hotels this side of the one run by Bates & Son. Wasn’t James’ Anonymous wealthy? Couldn’t he afford better accommodations than this? Is Ianto going to wake up tomorrow morning in a bathtub full of ice less one kidney?
James is standing at the door, holding it open like a gentleman. “Coming?” he asks.
Ianto shakes off the suspicion and walks through.
They take the lift to the third floor, and walk down the hallway together, James idling at each door, hands tucked behind his back. Eventually he stalls at one and keys something into his leather-covered watch. The card-lock flashes green and he swings the door open.
The room is unoccupied: the beds are fresh-made, which is typical even for a seedy place like this, but not only that. There are no toiletries littering the bathroom counter, no pulled-apart suitcases, no take away brochures spread out over the desk, no bags of shopping, nothing. Ianto stands in the middle of the room, arms crossed, watching James stride to the end of one bed and take a seat. He pats the mattress beside him in invitation, but Ianto doesn’t go to him.
Apparently there is a fine line between “dangerous” (read: exciting) and “sketchy” (read: possibly life-threatening).
Ianto watches him from across the room. In fact, they’re watching each other. James doesn’t press the issue about the bed, just sits there on the mattress, leaning back on his palms, arching out his back to stretch the muscles of his broad chest. All the while, smiling to himself, a weird, knowing smile like he’s got a secret.
“What,” Ianto demands, and James laughs, not the barking laugh of a derisive man, or the overloud laugh of a defensive one, but a genuine honest-to-god laugh, gentle and affable. Patient.
“Never taken a guy up to a room and had him stand around glaring at me before, is all,” James explains. Despite what he’s said, he doesn’t seem annoyed. In fact, he seems amused. Humbled, even.
“Do you break into hotels often then? With men?” He tries to maintain nonchalance and slip it in there unnoticed, the real question at the back of his mind: “Did you break into this room?”
“Does that bother you?” James replies with a smirk, dodging the questions. “Because I’m just . . . trying to make sure we understand each other, here. I’m an admitted conman, and you’re okay with that. So okay with that, in fact, that you’re willing to help me carry out a scam to get a priceless artefact out of the hands of its rightful owner and a set of clueless bidders and into the hands of a black market buyer and make me very, very rich.”
Well, when you put it like that . . . But he nods grimly, swallowing down a lump in his throat.
He will be in London tomorrow.
The bed creaks as James stands, stalks toward him. Circles him, eyes running him up and down with a gambler’s smirk. Ianto crosses his arms tighter, feeling warmth flush through his skin under that gaze.
“And I do appreciate that. Your intentions to make me very, very rich.” The circle tightens, and now James’ feet are crossing over each other sideways, stepping lightly, playfully, still maintaining enough distance that they don’t brush each other. “But this sudden conscience about hotel rooms. A little worrisome. Has me concerned you’re going to get a sudden conscience about other things.” He stops.
They’re standing nose to nose, with James flashing his teeth again. Ianto has this sense that he is using all his willpower not to tongue his canines. And there’s also the matter of that playful gleam in James’ eyes, which now, in light of the teeth, has taken on a new, ominous light. Ianto swallows, and it’s audible between them. James reaches out across the distance to run his thumb brushing through the hair over Ianto’s temple, prickling it out of place. Ianto realizes they’re both panting a little. He pulls his arms tighter around himself even as James leans in, his hand trailing down Ianto’s cheek. Ianto can feel the pad of each individual finger, could swear he can feel the indents of James’ fingerprints on him, all his nerves crackling hyperaware under James’ touch. His expression has softened down to something else that Ianto can’t read, an expression which he finds no less threatening.
“I need to know that I can trust you,” James says, voice low with - is that need? “Because I only go with men who go all the way.” He smirks at his own innuendo. Ianto can’t help but snort, at that, and just like that the moment’s over, and good thing, too, because suddenly the door opens with a clatter and it’s Alec, hustling in with armloads of bags.
“I got our man, no need to thank me or anything,” he announces, in a tone that makes it clear that there is absolutely a need to thank him. Neither of them bothers. “Our mark’s an old bloke by the name of Henry Parker. Placed a call about forty minutes ago to Torchwood. Says he has the artefact in his collection. Wanted to keep it but says it’s attracting ‘pests’. Didn’t specify what, but sounded scared shitless.”
Ianto takes a step back, out of James’ space, and for the first time, Alec seems to notice his presence. “Oh, Eye-Candy. Are you in, then?”
“His name’s ‘Ianto’,” James corrects, enunciating each syllable through his teeth.
“Ianto Jones,” Ianto elaborates, though he’s not sure why. Why give them his full name? Seems like an unnecessary risk to take. Something about not wanting to be on a first name basis with Alec. “And yes, I’m ‘in’. So . . . plan. I’m assuming you’ve got one?”
James claps a hand on his shoulder, what’s meant to be a chummy “good on ya” gesture, but his fingers linger there.
They’re all seated at the table hunkered into one corner of the room, elbow to elbow and knee to knee with an ashtray between them. Alec has gone through three harried cigarettes, puffing the smoke out his nostrils and flicking the burnt-up matches into Ianto’s chest. James isn’t in the mood to mediate.
Reason six - is it up to six already? - jealous, petty, and unable to separate his business and personal lives. So what if James likes Ianto? Alec and James aren’t exclusive, for starters, and even if they were, they need him, and if Alec keeps antagonizing him like this, they’re going to be stuck back at square one. Luckily, Ianto doesn’t rise to the bait, just occasionally gives Alec a withering look. The force of that condescension could shrink a man three inches, and in two different ways.
“So basically,” Alec says, stubbing out his third cigarette in the ashtray and reaching for a fourth, “It’s a bit of a variation on the old ‘Good Samaritan’ con.” On his little shopping trip he’d also picked up an oversized bottle of vodka for them (the kind with flecks of gold in it for some obscure reason James doesn’t care to guess at) and two tumblers. James gives Ianto his and procures one of the hotel room’s coffee mugs for himself. He cracks the bottle open as Alec lights a match.
“If it’s old, how do you know it’ll work?” Ianto asks. He takes the drink James pours for him, nursing it slowly. Alec chugs his down like water, prepping himself for his night ahead.
“The con became old because it works,” James says, turning the mug in his hand. It feels clumsy compared to a proper tumbler, the shape of it not quite right for the familiar motions.
“Every fucking time,” Alec laughs, prompting James to join him. James remembers all the times they’ve pulled this same con, always the same way: Alec plays the mugger, the thief; he plays bad so, so well. James plays the Good Samaritan like it’s second nature, smiling and nodding and breathing heavy like he’s overwhelmed and astonished by his own goodness. Just so long as you look the part, people are only too happy to accept the convenience of the story.
“The basics of it are,” James explains after a deep drink, “One man, Alec there generally, acts as the thief. He steals something from the mark. That’s con-artist speak for whoever we’re ripping off, or Parker for those of you following along at home.” Ianto lifts his tumbler to say cheers, at that, though his expression is sarcastic. “The second man, usually me, acts as the Good Samaritan, who pretends to have retrieved the item while regretfully letting the thief get away. The Good Samaritan returns the item, collects some manner of reward from the mark, and then both partners split the reward.”
“Of course, we’re not after the reward money this time. You can take that as your cut.” Alec smiles as he says it, flicking the ashes of his cigarette onto the table, completely unconcerned with the ashtray.
“Very generous,” Ianto replies, dryly.
“What we want, obviously, is the artefact,” James explains, trying to ignore the tension draped over the table like a blanket. “But for reasons I’m not at liberty to get into with you-sorry-Torchwood and the mark can’t know the artefact’s been stolen. So we’re going to replace it with a fake. When Alec steals it, we’ll switch it for a copy, which you’ll return as the Good Samaritan. You collect the reward, the mark gets the money for the artefact, and Torchwood get a reasonable facsimile of an artefact that they don’t know the real value of, anyway. Everybody wins.” Except you, James thinks, but doesn’t say it aloud. Just smiles.
Ianto drums his fingers over the surface of the table, eyes focused on the stubs of cigarettes in the ashtray. “And you, James? What’s your role in all this?” Oh, smart eyes. Dark. James is a little taken aback by his expression just then.
“We only know who owns the artefact, not where it’s being kept or where it will change hands. So I’m going to play a Torchwood operative and get our mark to tell us where the artefact’s going to change hands. Get Alec in.” He steeples his hands, smiling over the tips of his fingers. Ianto meets his gaze, poker-faced. “That answer your question?” James asks, his tone a touch too casual.
He makes the call three or four drinks later on Ianto’s mobile. Parker is elderly and weak-voiced, but with a certain grim sense of humour. James uses his Sean Connery accent, making small talk.
“I assume you know why I’m calling then, sir?” he asks, although with the Connery-talk it comes out more like “asshume” and “shur”. He puts up a hand to shush Alec, who is sputtering snickers into his vodka. Really, what are they, a couple of teenagers making prank calls?
“I do, but I’m not sure I understand why. I spoke to a woman from Torchwood not an hour ago and was told that I wouldn’t get a single pound note for the glove. She said you lot were going to seize it. Property of the Queen, she said. Not mine to sell.” He chuckles to himself on the other end of the line. “Well I’d like to see Torchwood try and take anything from me. Although to be honest I’d be glad to be rid of it. More trouble than it’s worth, this. Attracting . . . things.”
“That must be a misunderstanding,” James soothes. “I’ll be the one to say to you that Torchwood Glasgow isn’t too proud to pay.”
“Well that is encouraging!” Parker replies in a chipper rasp.
Greed is a conman’s best friend. It encourages otherwise intelligent, level-headed people to ignore their instincts: instincts that tell them when the circumstances are just too convenient, when the deal is just too good.
“Well I’ll just have my man meet with yours then, will I?” James flicks his eyes to Ianto, studying him, wondering what role he could play, untested. He meets Alec’s gaze. Alec makes the motion of tightening a tie at his throat before holding up one arm up like a waiter with a towel. He tilts his head in question. James twists his lips in thought, and says, “He’s just a servant. Well, he calls himself my ‘P.A.’, but what it comes down to is he’s reliable and I can trust him. Oh, and don’t worry about your pest problem. I’ll make sure he comes under guard.”
They arrange for their respective men to meet at a church near the city centre in just under an hour. Parker’s man will bring the artefact, which is apparently a glove of some description, interestingly enough-James didn’t know what he was expecting when he’d heard Time Lord weapon slash armour, but not a glove-and Ianto will bring the “money”, aka an empty suitcase because it won’t need to get to that point.
Alec digs through his shopping bags, producing a few props that he’s brought with him. There’s the good old “briefcase that looks like it might contain stacks of unmarked bills”, of course, psychic paper just in case, and finally, a suit for Ianto. That must have been what he’d meant by the tie-gesture. James supposes he won’t pass for much of a P.A. in a windbreaker and jeans. When Alec passes the bundle to him, tie, shirt, jacket, trousers, Ianto crinkles his nose momentarily but obediently leaves the room to change.
Once he’s gone, Alec lays out his guns on the table, loading them slowly, lovingly, stroking his thumbs along the barrels of pistols, tickling the triggers with teasing fingertips.
Reason seven: derives sexual pleasure from violence, but not in typical spank-you, tie-me ways.
“This is supposed to be a simple job,” James chides, watching him tuck the guns up into all his little hiding places. “Try not to make it into a bloodbath?”
Alec smiles, expression dark. He’s baring his teeth. “Afraid your little boyfriend’s going to get caught in the crossfire?” he teases.
Just then, Ianto returns, adjusting the knot of the tie. He looks . . . awkward. The suit is a little big on him, too long in the sleeves and too big over the shoulders, giving him the impression of a boy wearing his father’s clothes. It kinda works. If he can keep up that harassed, overly formal way of relating, he may be able to pass for a P.A. convincingly. They might just be able to pull this off.
Alec hops from his seat and walks over, hips jutted. “Not having second thoughts yet, are you?” he asks, patting Ianto, hard, on the back. The sound of the slap resounds through the room. Ianto lets out a deep breath through his nose, equally loud. James sits at the table, watching them.
Something is going to go wrong, he knows it. He doesn’t know how yet, but Alec is too high-strung, too cheerful, moving too fluidly.
“I’m fine,” Ianto grits out. “Peachy keen,” he adds, like something out of an old film.
“Really?” Alec asks, trailing a hand down Ianto’s chest, playful. “Because I nicked that suit off a corpse.”
James Bond Will Return (In Part Two!)
Author: heddychaa
Pairings: TimeAgent!Jack/Ianto, Jack/John
Rating: R
Genre: Heist / Thriller / Black Comedy, all of it timey-wimey
Disclaimer: Torchwood's characters, concepts, and events belong to their respective owners, including but not limited to Russell T Davies and the BBC. This is a work of fan-appreciation and no profit is being made.
Warnings: So much wink-wink nudge-nudge humour, you may wind up with a permanent twitch somewhere. UST by the bucketload. Gun violence.
Summary: Disgruntled university grad and professional layabout Ianto Jones had gone to the bar on his last night in Cardiff with the intention to get pissed. What he didn’t expect was to get tangled up with an international superspy cum antiques dealer cum black market buyer cum intergalactic conman in the middle of a relationship crisis. And he definitely didn’t expect to end the night in another man's blood-spattered suit.
A/N: Beta-d by the absolutely amazing azn_jack_fiend who read and re-read it a hundred million times and even helped me with the plotty bits when I was stuck.
Three Times Ianto Jones Met James Bond, Including One Time He Remembered It
5097
The first sign that it’s past time for them to cut ties: they’ve started picking matching aliases. Sitting on opposite ends of the pod bed, hunched up against its curved walls with their legs intertwined, his partner’s narrow foot running scandalously up the length of his calf, he says, “I think I should be James Bond, for this next one.”
His partner twitches a brow, and the foot draws back a little. He makes a petulant face, sucking his cheeks in like he’s tasted something sour. “And what does that make me? Miss Moneypenny?”
He breaks out into a big smile, clasping the foot, pulling it up and trapping it between his thighs where he can rub his partner’s toes in tiny firm circles. “I was thinking more along the lines of Pussy Galore,” he says, devilishly. The foot he’s holding pushes forward, trying to heel him in the gut. He catches it in the butts of his palms. “Alec Trevelyan?” he tries. “Now he was a bastard, remember?”
“I do remember,” his partner admits. “But I don’t see why you want to be James Bond. Your accent reads American, to them. Exact opposite of James Bond, American. I should be James Bond.”
“I thought of it first. I’m in charge. I have the bigger wrist strap. I’m James Bond.” He raises his eyebrows as if to say, ‘and what’s your response to that perfectly crafted rebuttal?’ Bigger wrist strap indeed!
Alec can read his expressions perfectly, and he merely sighs into the massage. “You win again, James,” he says, all petulant resignation.
James brings Alec’s foot up to face level, kisses the arch messily, watching Alec’s eyes as he does. He trails the kisses up to his ankle, up to his calf. Alec spreads his legs, knees knocking the sides of the pod, to accommodate him crawling forward. As he leans forward, covering him with his body, he murmurs, in his best Sean Connery, “James Bond always wins.” The imitation doesn’t sound half bad, to James. Alec just chuckles indulgently into his collarbone.
2003
Drinking a Lucozade sprawled out on the couch, half-watching the film playing in the background. Rhiannon’s in the kitchen, slamming the cupboards as though she wants to bring the whole place down with the shockwaves. He flicks his eyes to the screen, pointedly trying to block out the sound of her voice.
“And what was wrong with the job at the fucking coffee shop, then?” she shouts, and he realizes she’s standing in the doorway that connects the kitchen and the living room. He glances over at her, eyes moving slow like a drunk’s. He’s not going to dignify it with a response. She’s hysterical. He rolls his eyes back to the telly, where Bond, James Bond, is ordering his martini shaken-not-stirred.
“I know you think all this,” and she gestures her arms around her living room as she says it, “is all beneath you, Ianto, but it’s a bloody paycheque, isn’t it, and that’s all we’re in the position to ask for right now.” We. Like they’re in this thing together. Like they’re a family, still.
He’s not going to tell her about the bus ticket to London that he bought with the last tip payout before he quit. He’s not going to give her a chance to fight with him about it. He’s going to disappear tomorrow morning at five AM, and by the time she wakes up, he’ll be long gone, his duffel bag and his dirty laundry and his paperbacks all disappeared from the living room. All he’ll leave by way of a note will be his last paycheque from the shop with his signature on the back to endorse it. She really could use the money.
Fuck knows what he’s going to do when he gets there, but anything’s got to be better than here. Plans, flats, jobs set up in advance, that’s what Rhiannon would worry about, her and her fat stupid husband and her snotty grabby-fisted kids. Your niece and nephew, some guilty sensible part of him says, but he pushes it back. He needs to be angry to do what he has to do.
But Rhiannon isn’t done with him yet. She comes into the living room and kneels in front of the sofa, blocking the view to the telly. She puts a hand on his cheek, forcing him to look her in the eye. “I know you don’t want to be here,” she says, motherly now. She’s still annoyed, he knows, but she’s doing her best to take the high road, be the bigger person, all that shit she reads in her parenting books. Right now she’s “getting on his level”. If he was even three years younger he’d probably smack her upside her smug head. He avoids her gaze instead. “This isn’t what you imagined your life being, is it, when you left for uni?” She says it soft, tracing her knuckles over his cheekbone, running the tips of her fingers along his hairline like his mam did for him when he was little. “But it’ll get better. You won’t be here forever, you’ll see. You won’t work odd jobs forever. You’re too smart for that.”
Oddjob. Now there was a Bond villain. He tries to peer round Rhiannon’s head. Bond is seducing a woman, wearing a white tuxedo jacket; he can see a glimpse of his bent elbow. Roger Moore, camp as he was, probably got three times the women as any of the actors who came before or after him. Ianto must remember that.
“But until then, if you’re going to be staying with me and Johnny-god knows I’m happy to have you Ianto, and I’ll never turn my own family out onto the streets-you need to earn your keep. I need you to work, and stay working. Pride has nothing to do with it. We have bills to pay.”
He sits up, chugs the Lucozade down. It’s sweet and sticky and it isn’t what he wants.
“Tomorrow morning Johnny says he’ll drive you down to that place that does the day work. Construction and the like. It’s not great, but it’s better than nothing. Until you find something long term.” Something permanent, she means to say, but doesn’t. He can see it in her eyes, the way her jaw snaps around it.
He stands, not saying anything to her. He has nothing to say to her. Tomorrow morning he’ll be gone.
“Ianto are you listening to me?”
He grabs his windbreaker draped over the back of the sofa. Shrugs into it as he walks to the front door of the flat.
“Ianto where are you going? It’s nearly bloody midnight!”
He opens the door and steps out into the night air.
They blink into existence standing on a building rooftop overlooking a glittering bay. A cold breeze nips at their cheeks.
“Have you been here, before?” asks Alec. They simultaneously flip their wrist straps, check their vortex manipulators.
“What, Cardiff?” James replies. “Don’t think so. Or do you mean now? When are we?”
“Twenty-first century. And yeah. That one.”
They’ve both made frequent trips to Sol 3 throughout its timeline. As a Level 5 planet, it requires a bit more protection of its timeline than most others, and, at the same time, it seems to invite more exploitation and meddling than is usual for that same reason.
“You know me, Alec. Always preferred the late-nineteenth, early-twentieth centuries, myself. Something about men all buttoned up in stiff collars and uniforms. Oh, and mutton chops,” he replies. He surveys the scene, screwing up his eyes as he peers down at a warning message on his vortex manipulator.
“Ugh, facial hair,” Alec says, and from the sound of it James can tell he’s letting his tongue fall out of his mouth in disgust. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, anyway. Everybody knows the eighteenth century is where you want to be. Revolutions! Redcoats! Philosophers!”
“Powdered wigs,” James counters, unconvinced.
“Hellfire clubs,” Alec replies. “The golden age of piracy. Beautiful . . . pale . . . breasts. What do you have in the late eighteen-hundreds, bustles?”
“French postcards,” James answers with a shrug.
“Oh, those are nice,” Alec agrees. James can actually hear his orgasmic little eyeroll. James has brought him back sheafs of them as souvenirs, in their relative past.
“My vortex manipulator’s displaying a paradox warning,” he says at length, back to business.
“Mine too. For you.” Alec looks over at him, shrugs. “We are standing on a huge rift in time and space. Maybe that’s what’s setting it off. You said you haven’t been to Cardiff before, right?”
“Before. I might come here in the future. We might be crossing my timeline right now without even knowing it.”
“Well, your future self will know to avoid you, then. We’re not giving up on this score for a sodding paradox alarm.” He turns on the heel of his boot, marching toward the roof access door and drawing his sonic blaster. He fires a hole through the door as he’s still walking and, without missing a step, ducks through it. James follows him through, feeling worry itching under his skin.
They thunk down the emergency stairs and into the bowels of the building. Alec’s footsteps are a tumbling clatter, impatient. Annoyed that so soon after arriving there are already problems cropping up, James assumes. Or maybe what he’s calling impatience is actually eagerness, or a mixture of the two. Alec is unpredictable, constantly up-and-down. Reason number two why it’s high time for James to move on.
When they reach ground level, Alec shoots the sonic blaster again, making them a pathway out onto the street. On the street, he looks both ways.
“Left,” James suggests, as random as flipping a coin. Alec turns right.
Reason number three: Alec can be pointlessly defiant at times and it kinda gets on his nerves.
“So,” he asks, following Alec with long, easy strides. His tone is a little bitchier than strictly necessary. “Do you have a plan, exactly, or are you just hoping to stumble across what we’re looking for?”
Alec rounds on him. “Oh, I’m sorry!” he snarls. “I didn’t realize this was official Agency business we were on and I needed to follow protocol. Okay then, Agent Bond, local knowledge assessment. Let’s have it.”
They’re standing right in the middle of a busy pavement, human pedestrians shouldering past them, giving them looks over their odd dress and raised voices. James is annoyed enough to play along. He snaps his heels together, jerks his chin up at attention. “Early twenty-first century Cardiff. Sol 3. Level 5 planet. Notable features: a poorly understood or controlled rift in time and space runs through the city. Intelligence says that the locals have four organizations that may be relevant to Agency dealings: a worldwide military organization called UNIT, and three local branches of an imperial organization called ‘Torchwood’. Both are to be considered only vaguely versed in galactic goings-on. Both are potentially hostile.”
It’s rote memorization, falling out of his mouth without really connecting to any meaning in his mind, the same way he knows the Great War lasted from 1914 to 1918 and resulted in the death of 15 million humans, mostly young males. It was only when he visited, chasing after some idiot pacifist who’d decided that it was within her power and authority to prevent it, that James understood, really understood, what the Great War had really meant, what 15 million dead young males looked like. It looked like mud.
His paradox alarm had went off then, too. He hates visiting Sol 3 for that reason: his vortex manipulator always malfunctions here. Or something. He’s not sure. It doesn’t make any sense. He doesn’t know what happens in his future, or even what could happen in his future to cause this outcome, but every trip he’s made to the twentieth and twenty-first centuries here has resulted in the predictable warnings. It’s a little unnerving. One particularly morbid possibility has him dead and buried here with the still-functioning vortex manipulator strapped to his wrist, sending out its endless signal. Ever since he imagined that possibility, coming here has been like walking on his own grave. A little shudder runs through him.
“Better now?” Alec asks him. “Mister by-the-books? Mister top-of-the-class?”
James snorts. “Just because you couldn’t even remember the star whale incident on the 33rd century test.”
They resume walking. “I remember Liz Ten though,” Alec says, the humour back in his voice.
“Ugh, who could forget her,” James groans, fanning himself.
“When I leave the Agency,” Alec tells him, “I think she’ll be the first monarch I fuck.”
“The first monarch?” James asks. “Who’ll be the first person, just in general?”
“You,” Alec replies, taking no time to think it over. “You when you were seventeen.”
“You’re a pig,” James scolds, laughing. “Wait. You have a prioritized list of monarchs you’re planning on screwing?”
“Maybe. Well yes. Don’t you?”
“Not nearly that organized.”
“Drinks?”
“Thought you’d never ask.”
Ianto is an inch from the bottom of his third pint when two men stomp into the pub like they own the place, talking loud like they’re already drunk. He watches the bouncer sizing them up but ultimately deciding they’re harmless. He watches them take a seat together in a dark corner, sitting too close to be mates, smirking and watching goings on like they’re only in this pub because they’re slumming it. They’re both good looking, in their own distinct ways, both dark-haired, one of them big and bright and James Dean handsome, the other small and dark and sharp, with a pinched, smirking face. Ianto turns back to the bar, finishing his pint in a long, single-minded gulp, trying not to get to hung up on the way he swings to the gayer end of the Kinsey scale when he’s had a few. Nobody likes the morose lonely sod at the pub weeping into his pints, and he doesn’t intend to become him. He’s bad enough after that fight with Rhiannon, he doesn’t need to pile a sexual identity crisis on top of it.
If he ignores them, they’ll go away. He’ll go home, and tomorrow morning everything will be back to normal again. He will be in London, and if his brain decides, stubborn as ever, to get gay on him there, at least it won’t have quite as disastrous of consequences. He tells himself.
Such a fatalist, Ianto Jones, he chides himself in a remarkably dry inner voice. Last night in Cardiff and you’re fancying a threesome with two strange and clearly dangerous-looking men that you met in a pub. Why is he treating his last night here like his last night alive? He orders another pint, switching on a whim to Guinness.
“My Goodness, my Guinness!” someone quotes in a smooth American accent. It’s big-and-bright, standing next to him, one elbow on the bar, flashing him teeth. The James Dean comparison was apt, Ianto realizes now. He’s wearing a tight white t-shirt, faded jeans, beat up brown leather motorcycle boots. Even his brown hair is combed back into a pompadour. It’s not just like he’s wearing clothes he picked up at one of those quirky little vintage shops, though: he looks and feels physically out of place, somehow. Ianto can’t put his finger on it. Maybe it’s the American-ness. Maybe it’s the fact that Ianto’s drunk. When the bartender slides Ianto his Guinness, still settling, Big-and-bright orders two Jack and Cokes, both doubles, watching Ianto out of the corner of his eye.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
God, he smells good. Ianto feels almost embarrassed to be wearing Lacoste.
“Ianto,” he replies, sipping his Guinness slowly, feeling the head coating his upper lip. He gets a little rush at the sight of the other man watching him lick the foam away with a nervous dart of his tongue. The way his eyes widen just a fraction. The slow spreading smile, gone as quick as it came.
“I’m Bond, James Bond,” the other man introduces.
Ianto sputters into his stout.
“Did I . . . say something wrong?” James Bond asks.
“I-is that your idea of a pick up line?” Ianto manages to stutter, tone cut with condescension and disbelief.
James Bond laughs sheepishly, flashes him a very charming smile, more than making up for his gaffe. “I’m sorry. Harper. Harper is my last name. I’m James Harper.”
Not a bad recovery, all things considered, but with a face like that, Ianto assumes he’s gotten away with worse. Like hitting on sullen, drunk Welshmen when his boyfriend is less than ten metres away. The two Jack and Cokes sit on the bartop, completely unnoticed.
“So, Ianto. You come here often?” James asks. God, he’s cheesy. Why doesn’t that bother Ianto more? The smile, maybe. The blue eyes, bright even in the dim pub lighting. The understated muscles of his arms, tightly bound by the t-shirt’s sleeves. The classic white t-shirt, totally unassuming. The way he traces his forefinger along the bartop lazily, brushing his knuckle against Ianto’s bare arm before pulling it away with a coy glance.
Tomorrow Ianto will be in London.
“Do you?” he deflects. He’s hardly going to say “Yeah, it’s only a five minute walk slash stumble back to my sister’s housing estate at the end of the night,” although that would certainly scare him off.
Ianto doesn’t want to scare James off.
“No, I’m just in town on business.”
“And what business would that be?” Another long drink from the Guinness, watching James over the rim of the glass.
“Antiques dealing,” James replies, a sparkle in his eyes.
“Like the Roadshow?” Ianto asks. “I figure I’ve spent enough sick days on the couch, I could probably appraise a dinette set or two.” Now he’s flirting.
“I’m more in the business of weapons and armour,” James says. There’s something devious in his tone.
“You and your partner over there?” Ianto asks, jerking his chin to the table where the dark man sits, his feet up on the table and his hands tucked behind his head. He doesn’t look particularly annoyed to have been abandoned. Now Ianto’s getting in deep, asking arseways in that typical pub fashion if James is single. Why not “Where’s your girlfriend, in the loo?” like he’s heard so many times himself?
James catches on, one eyebrow quirking up playfully. “Just business,” he says. “Unless you’d like us as a package, that is.”
Ianto feels a flush hit his ears. “I-” he stammers. What does he want?
He doesn’t get a chance to reply, because suddenly the dark man is at his shoulder, shoving between him and James and downing both of the Jack and Cokes in breathless swallows.
“Thanks for the drinks, James,” he says in a dry English drawl. “Wish I could say the same for the company.”
James peers around his partner’s body, making apologetic eye contact with Ianto. “My partner. Alec. You’ll have to excuse his manners: he doesn’t have any.”
“That’s rich from you,” Alec counters, and Ianto realizes he smells good, too. Different, but good; spicier, more exotic and demanding than the summery earthiness, the warmth, that radiates off of James. The two of them complement each other perfectly. Not just the smells, but the physicality, the body language, the way they emote, the tones they use to speak.
He finishes his Guinness. “I should be getting going anyway,” he mutters, feeling shameful.
“You don’t have to do that!” James protests, but Alec gives him a censoring look.
“Yes he does. Time for us to go anyway, James. Our item’s on the move.”
James consults a leather-covered watch on his wrist, brow furrowing. “On the move? Where?”
“Dredged up about nine hours ago in the bay, give or take. Right now I’ll say it’s wrapped up in a plastic bag of license plates and beach glass in the front seat of some bloke’s pickup. We have, oh, about three hours to get it out of whatever flotsam and jetsam collection it’s in before Torchwood gets to it first.” The ice in the highball glass tinkles as Alec rolls his wrist, shifting everything around.
“Rival purchasers,” James explains, for Ianto’s benefit. Ianto manages a tight smile, slipping off of the bar stool.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it. Good luck,” he says, and grabs his windbreaker from where it is draped over the bar counter. He shrugs it over his shoulders.
Reason four: freedom to fraternize with the locals. He watches Ianto go, feeling lonely.
He’s gorgeous. Lean and tragic, with a sad face like he’s been slapped one too many times and he’s waiting for another. Lovely eyes, searching for something. Snub nose, no deep truth there, just a cute feature. Everything about him is soft and young and demanding to be kissed. James wants to get up, follow him, bully him into an alley, push him up against the wet bricks and bite his lips until they’re red.
Alec hops into Ianto’s seat, sadistic and cheerful. “Do you have to fall in love everywhere we go?” he asks, knocking over Ianto’s empty Guinness glass with one bony finger. It spins on the bartop, dribbling out a loop. “I just don’t get you sometimes, James. Boys like that, they’re just eye candy. Unwrap, suck on, roll around in your mouth a bit if you’re feeling particularly motivated, spit out.”
It’s a terrible mixed metaphor and it doesn’t make an ounce of sense, but that about sums Alec up. “We don’t have time for him, anyway,” James justifies to himself.
This job needs to be quick and quiet, no mess. If the Time Agency hears what they’re up to, it’ll be a lot more than just a suspension or a slap on the wrist they’re risking. But the payout is more than worth their while. Rumour is, this is an old Time Lord artefact. Whether or not Time Lords even existed is up for debate, but the debate is irrelevant: people will pay a lot of money for anything that has even the remotest possibility of being connected to the ancient and legendary race.
They don’t have long, though. As long as it’s in the hands of the 21st century nobody who currently possesses it, they can con their way in and be well on their way long before the timelines start to shift and the Agency starts nosing around. Once Torchwood gets a hold of it, though, it’s gone. There’s no stealing it from them, no sleight of hand, at least not without causing a huge (noticeable, memorable, identifiable) temporal mess. And if the artefact does stay on its predestined course, it’s due to sit in Torchwood’s vaults for a few pointless years before it’s permanently destroyed. What a waste.
But not if they have anything to say about it.
“So, any plans on how we’re going to find this mystical plastic bag of flotsam and jetsam? Before Torchwood does? And on their own home territory?” The task suddenly feels monumental. James flags down the bartender for a drink, since his first one wound up in Alec’s hands.
“Scan for alien tech?” Alec suggests with a shrug. Normally the easiest solution on a Level 5 planet. Fair enough. James gives it a try. Purses his lips.
“Any way we can filter these results?” he asks. He chugs down the Jack and Coke the bartender left for him, eyes riveted to the screen of his vortex manipulator.
“Filter them? Using what criteria?”
“Any criteria at all. ‘Smaller than a breadbox’. ‘Manufactured before year 20,000’. ‘Made to withstand extreme heat’. ‘Occasionally mistaken for a sex toy’. There’s literally thousands of instances of alien tech in this city, Alec. Thousands.”
“The rift.” The realization dawns on him, and he’s not pleased about it.
“Spitting things out in every direction,” James concludes.
“Well, shit.” He furrows his brow.
“We could always investigate them all one by one?”
“I hate you.”
“Or! We know that whoever’s got it gets in touch with Torchwood somehow, right? Tonight. So we listen to the chatter and wait for that call, then when we know where the call’s coming from we put in an opposing bid. Steal the artefact right out from under Torchwood’s noses.”
Alec narrows his eyes, plucking an ice cube from his glass and popping it into his mouth. James watches him roll it around on his tongue thoughtfully. “I think you’re letting that quaint little ‘antique dealer’ story go to your head, with that one. We came here to steal the thing, not buy it.” James shrugs. “And it still doesn’t solve the problem of the fact that then we’re right back to square one of how much is too much for Torchwood to know about the alternate future they’re missing out on before the timelines get fucked and we end up with that smarmy bitch Indigo stuffing a gun down our throats? She always did have it out for me. Just because I shot her partner.”
A smirk creeps onto James’ face as he listens to Alec ramble, and he looks over his shoulder to the door of the bar. “Well, I would be really worried about that possibility, Alec, except for while you were sulking in the corner I just found us the perfect fall guy.” He spins his tumbler so that the ice cubes twinkle in the neon light.
“Oh, I love you,” Alec gushes, and his molars crunch down on what’s left of the ice cube he’d been sucking on with a merciless grin.
Reason five: can’t make up his mind on his feelings. Either that, or possible short-term memory loss from too much heavy drinking.
He’s only just left the bar when he hears footsteps on the pavement behind him, in no great hurry to catch up. He doesn’t turn to see who it is, because he knows. Soon, the footsteps fall into rhythm with his own, a shoulder brushing intimately, casually, against his.
“I haven’t been entirely truthful,” James says.
“Oh?” Ianto replies. No, really? he thinks in that bitter drunken voice. James is alone, though. No following footsteps of his ‘partner’. How more awkward is this going to get? Maybe it would have been less awkward to just have stayed on Rhiannon’s couch on his last night in Cardiff, listening to her and Johnny through the wall fucking at two AM like bandits.
“I’m not really an antiques dealer,” James says.
“Well,” Ianto sputters, “I assumed as much. You don’t exactly look the part.”
When he doesn’t ask like a curious little boy meeting his first fireman, James pipes up all on his own. “I’m a black market buyer. My partner and I, we work for a rich Anonymous to buy things that can’t be purchased the usual way.” Ianto keeps up his brisk pace, although he’s no longer walking in the direction of Rhiannon’s.
“And you’re telling me this why?” Not a good foundation for a relationship, lies. A perfectly acceptable foundation for a one night stand, however.
“Well here’s the thing. We had this deal we were supposed to make. This item we were supposed to buy. But it fell through. The seller wants to go with the other buyer.”
“Torchwood, you mean,” Ianto supplies, wanting, for some reason, to prove he isn’t some idiot kid. That he can keep up.
“Exactly. Well here’s the thing. My partner and I, we’re not too keen on going back empty handed. In fact, you could say we can’t go back empty handed. So you can see our conundrum.” Ianto glances over at him. He still looks handsome, even out of the flattering bar lighting. He has a remarkably honest face for a criminal. He supposes that comes in handy. “And the truth is,” James continues, “Torchwood has no idea what they’re even bidding on. It’s of no value to them. Not like it is to us.”
“So you’re going to steal it from them,” Ianto finishes.
“No, we’re going to con them. A three man con, to be specific. So tell me, Ianto. You look like the kind of man who needs a little excitement in his life. Interested in making some money tonight?”
They are standing on the pavement together, Ianto with his hands stuffed into his pockets, James with his hands on his hips, smiling that brilliant smile, the neon of a 24 hour chemist’s lighting the plains of his face. He looks . . . exciting. A little dangerous. Like he legitimately understands what Ianto has been going through and wants to help. That’s impossible, of course, just a romantic little daydream on Ianto’s part that the one stranger he meets by coincidence is the one person to be willing and able to give him what he needs. He watches too many films.
Tomorrow morning he’ll be in London.
He crosses his arms over his chest. “Okay,” he says, putting on his most bored-suspicious-impatient-don’t-waste-my-time voice, “I’m listening. You have five minutes.”
James grins. “Okay, but just one question. Do they start now, or when we get to my hotel? Because if they start now, we’re going to have to sprint.”
“I don’t know,” Ianto says. “You look like you want to sprint back to your hotel with me regardless.” He finds himself smiling, a little.
“What, and be out of breath already when I get there?” Ianto feels James’ shoulder bump against his playfully.
They start to walk. James tells him it’s his first time in Cardiff; tells him about his many visits to London and about one memorable trip to Liverpool. He tells unflattering stories about his sour-faced partner. All of the stories sound disjointed, somehow, as though he’s patching them together, or leaving out crucial details. Finally, as though he’s been waiting all night, he sucks in a breath through his teeth and says, “So have you ever seen, I dunno, a guy who looked like me? Here in Cardiff?”
“Like a brother?” Ianto asks.
“Like . . . a twin . . . brother,” James says, stuttering out the words like William Shatner.
Well, Ianto did like him because he was “interesting”. Long lost siblings slash escaped government clones would certainly tick that box.
“No, nobody,” he replies, truthfully.
“Worth a shot-- well, this is it.” They’ve stopped at the entrance to one of the dingiest hotels this side of the one run by Bates & Son. Wasn’t James’ Anonymous wealthy? Couldn’t he afford better accommodations than this? Is Ianto going to wake up tomorrow morning in a bathtub full of ice less one kidney?
James is standing at the door, holding it open like a gentleman. “Coming?” he asks.
Ianto shakes off the suspicion and walks through.
They take the lift to the third floor, and walk down the hallway together, James idling at each door, hands tucked behind his back. Eventually he stalls at one and keys something into his leather-covered watch. The card-lock flashes green and he swings the door open.
The room is unoccupied: the beds are fresh-made, which is typical even for a seedy place like this, but not only that. There are no toiletries littering the bathroom counter, no pulled-apart suitcases, no take away brochures spread out over the desk, no bags of shopping, nothing. Ianto stands in the middle of the room, arms crossed, watching James stride to the end of one bed and take a seat. He pats the mattress beside him in invitation, but Ianto doesn’t go to him.
Apparently there is a fine line between “dangerous” (read: exciting) and “sketchy” (read: possibly life-threatening).
Ianto watches him from across the room. In fact, they’re watching each other. James doesn’t press the issue about the bed, just sits there on the mattress, leaning back on his palms, arching out his back to stretch the muscles of his broad chest. All the while, smiling to himself, a weird, knowing smile like he’s got a secret.
“What,” Ianto demands, and James laughs, not the barking laugh of a derisive man, or the overloud laugh of a defensive one, but a genuine honest-to-god laugh, gentle and affable. Patient.
“Never taken a guy up to a room and had him stand around glaring at me before, is all,” James explains. Despite what he’s said, he doesn’t seem annoyed. In fact, he seems amused. Humbled, even.
“Do you break into hotels often then? With men?” He tries to maintain nonchalance and slip it in there unnoticed, the real question at the back of his mind: “Did you break into this room?”
“Does that bother you?” James replies with a smirk, dodging the questions. “Because I’m just . . . trying to make sure we understand each other, here. I’m an admitted conman, and you’re okay with that. So okay with that, in fact, that you’re willing to help me carry out a scam to get a priceless artefact out of the hands of its rightful owner and a set of clueless bidders and into the hands of a black market buyer and make me very, very rich.”
Well, when you put it like that . . . But he nods grimly, swallowing down a lump in his throat.
He will be in London tomorrow.
The bed creaks as James stands, stalks toward him. Circles him, eyes running him up and down with a gambler’s smirk. Ianto crosses his arms tighter, feeling warmth flush through his skin under that gaze.
“And I do appreciate that. Your intentions to make me very, very rich.” The circle tightens, and now James’ feet are crossing over each other sideways, stepping lightly, playfully, still maintaining enough distance that they don’t brush each other. “But this sudden conscience about hotel rooms. A little worrisome. Has me concerned you’re going to get a sudden conscience about other things.” He stops.
They’re standing nose to nose, with James flashing his teeth again. Ianto has this sense that he is using all his willpower not to tongue his canines. And there’s also the matter of that playful gleam in James’ eyes, which now, in light of the teeth, has taken on a new, ominous light. Ianto swallows, and it’s audible between them. James reaches out across the distance to run his thumb brushing through the hair over Ianto’s temple, prickling it out of place. Ianto realizes they’re both panting a little. He pulls his arms tighter around himself even as James leans in, his hand trailing down Ianto’s cheek. Ianto can feel the pad of each individual finger, could swear he can feel the indents of James’ fingerprints on him, all his nerves crackling hyperaware under James’ touch. His expression has softened down to something else that Ianto can’t read, an expression which he finds no less threatening.
“I need to know that I can trust you,” James says, voice low with - is that need? “Because I only go with men who go all the way.” He smirks at his own innuendo. Ianto can’t help but snort, at that, and just like that the moment’s over, and good thing, too, because suddenly the door opens with a clatter and it’s Alec, hustling in with armloads of bags.
“I got our man, no need to thank me or anything,” he announces, in a tone that makes it clear that there is absolutely a need to thank him. Neither of them bothers. “Our mark’s an old bloke by the name of Henry Parker. Placed a call about forty minutes ago to Torchwood. Says he has the artefact in his collection. Wanted to keep it but says it’s attracting ‘pests’. Didn’t specify what, but sounded scared shitless.”
Ianto takes a step back, out of James’ space, and for the first time, Alec seems to notice his presence. “Oh, Eye-Candy. Are you in, then?”
“His name’s ‘Ianto’,” James corrects, enunciating each syllable through his teeth.
“Ianto Jones,” Ianto elaborates, though he’s not sure why. Why give them his full name? Seems like an unnecessary risk to take. Something about not wanting to be on a first name basis with Alec. “And yes, I’m ‘in’. So . . . plan. I’m assuming you’ve got one?”
James claps a hand on his shoulder, what’s meant to be a chummy “good on ya” gesture, but his fingers linger there.
They’re all seated at the table hunkered into one corner of the room, elbow to elbow and knee to knee with an ashtray between them. Alec has gone through three harried cigarettes, puffing the smoke out his nostrils and flicking the burnt-up matches into Ianto’s chest. James isn’t in the mood to mediate.
Reason six - is it up to six already? - jealous, petty, and unable to separate his business and personal lives. So what if James likes Ianto? Alec and James aren’t exclusive, for starters, and even if they were, they need him, and if Alec keeps antagonizing him like this, they’re going to be stuck back at square one. Luckily, Ianto doesn’t rise to the bait, just occasionally gives Alec a withering look. The force of that condescension could shrink a man three inches, and in two different ways.
“So basically,” Alec says, stubbing out his third cigarette in the ashtray and reaching for a fourth, “It’s a bit of a variation on the old ‘Good Samaritan’ con.” On his little shopping trip he’d also picked up an oversized bottle of vodka for them (the kind with flecks of gold in it for some obscure reason James doesn’t care to guess at) and two tumblers. James gives Ianto his and procures one of the hotel room’s coffee mugs for himself. He cracks the bottle open as Alec lights a match.
“If it’s old, how do you know it’ll work?” Ianto asks. He takes the drink James pours for him, nursing it slowly. Alec chugs his down like water, prepping himself for his night ahead.
“The con became old because it works,” James says, turning the mug in his hand. It feels clumsy compared to a proper tumbler, the shape of it not quite right for the familiar motions.
“Every fucking time,” Alec laughs, prompting James to join him. James remembers all the times they’ve pulled this same con, always the same way: Alec plays the mugger, the thief; he plays bad so, so well. James plays the Good Samaritan like it’s second nature, smiling and nodding and breathing heavy like he’s overwhelmed and astonished by his own goodness. Just so long as you look the part, people are only too happy to accept the convenience of the story.
“The basics of it are,” James explains after a deep drink, “One man, Alec there generally, acts as the thief. He steals something from the mark. That’s con-artist speak for whoever we’re ripping off, or Parker for those of you following along at home.” Ianto lifts his tumbler to say cheers, at that, though his expression is sarcastic. “The second man, usually me, acts as the Good Samaritan, who pretends to have retrieved the item while regretfully letting the thief get away. The Good Samaritan returns the item, collects some manner of reward from the mark, and then both partners split the reward.”
“Of course, we’re not after the reward money this time. You can take that as your cut.” Alec smiles as he says it, flicking the ashes of his cigarette onto the table, completely unconcerned with the ashtray.
“Very generous,” Ianto replies, dryly.
“What we want, obviously, is the artefact,” James explains, trying to ignore the tension draped over the table like a blanket. “But for reasons I’m not at liberty to get into with you-sorry-Torchwood and the mark can’t know the artefact’s been stolen. So we’re going to replace it with a fake. When Alec steals it, we’ll switch it for a copy, which you’ll return as the Good Samaritan. You collect the reward, the mark gets the money for the artefact, and Torchwood get a reasonable facsimile of an artefact that they don’t know the real value of, anyway. Everybody wins.” Except you, James thinks, but doesn’t say it aloud. Just smiles.
Ianto drums his fingers over the surface of the table, eyes focused on the stubs of cigarettes in the ashtray. “And you, James? What’s your role in all this?” Oh, smart eyes. Dark. James is a little taken aback by his expression just then.
“We only know who owns the artefact, not where it’s being kept or where it will change hands. So I’m going to play a Torchwood operative and get our mark to tell us where the artefact’s going to change hands. Get Alec in.” He steeples his hands, smiling over the tips of his fingers. Ianto meets his gaze, poker-faced. “That answer your question?” James asks, his tone a touch too casual.
He makes the call three or four drinks later on Ianto’s mobile. Parker is elderly and weak-voiced, but with a certain grim sense of humour. James uses his Sean Connery accent, making small talk.
“I assume you know why I’m calling then, sir?” he asks, although with the Connery-talk it comes out more like “asshume” and “shur”. He puts up a hand to shush Alec, who is sputtering snickers into his vodka. Really, what are they, a couple of teenagers making prank calls?
“I do, but I’m not sure I understand why. I spoke to a woman from Torchwood not an hour ago and was told that I wouldn’t get a single pound note for the glove. She said you lot were going to seize it. Property of the Queen, she said. Not mine to sell.” He chuckles to himself on the other end of the line. “Well I’d like to see Torchwood try and take anything from me. Although to be honest I’d be glad to be rid of it. More trouble than it’s worth, this. Attracting . . . things.”
“That must be a misunderstanding,” James soothes. “I’ll be the one to say to you that Torchwood Glasgow isn’t too proud to pay.”
“Well that is encouraging!” Parker replies in a chipper rasp.
Greed is a conman’s best friend. It encourages otherwise intelligent, level-headed people to ignore their instincts: instincts that tell them when the circumstances are just too convenient, when the deal is just too good.
“Well I’ll just have my man meet with yours then, will I?” James flicks his eyes to Ianto, studying him, wondering what role he could play, untested. He meets Alec’s gaze. Alec makes the motion of tightening a tie at his throat before holding up one arm up like a waiter with a towel. He tilts his head in question. James twists his lips in thought, and says, “He’s just a servant. Well, he calls himself my ‘P.A.’, but what it comes down to is he’s reliable and I can trust him. Oh, and don’t worry about your pest problem. I’ll make sure he comes under guard.”
They arrange for their respective men to meet at a church near the city centre in just under an hour. Parker’s man will bring the artefact, which is apparently a glove of some description, interestingly enough-James didn’t know what he was expecting when he’d heard Time Lord weapon slash armour, but not a glove-and Ianto will bring the “money”, aka an empty suitcase because it won’t need to get to that point.
Alec digs through his shopping bags, producing a few props that he’s brought with him. There’s the good old “briefcase that looks like it might contain stacks of unmarked bills”, of course, psychic paper just in case, and finally, a suit for Ianto. That must have been what he’d meant by the tie-gesture. James supposes he won’t pass for much of a P.A. in a windbreaker and jeans. When Alec passes the bundle to him, tie, shirt, jacket, trousers, Ianto crinkles his nose momentarily but obediently leaves the room to change.
Once he’s gone, Alec lays out his guns on the table, loading them slowly, lovingly, stroking his thumbs along the barrels of pistols, tickling the triggers with teasing fingertips.
Reason seven: derives sexual pleasure from violence, but not in typical spank-you, tie-me ways.
“This is supposed to be a simple job,” James chides, watching him tuck the guns up into all his little hiding places. “Try not to make it into a bloodbath?”
Alec smiles, expression dark. He’s baring his teeth. “Afraid your little boyfriend’s going to get caught in the crossfire?” he teases.
Just then, Ianto returns, adjusting the knot of the tie. He looks . . . awkward. The suit is a little big on him, too long in the sleeves and too big over the shoulders, giving him the impression of a boy wearing his father’s clothes. It kinda works. If he can keep up that harassed, overly formal way of relating, he may be able to pass for a P.A. convincingly. They might just be able to pull this off.
Alec hops from his seat and walks over, hips jutted. “Not having second thoughts yet, are you?” he asks, patting Ianto, hard, on the back. The sound of the slap resounds through the room. Ianto lets out a deep breath through his nose, equally loud. James sits at the table, watching them.
Something is going to go wrong, he knows it. He doesn’t know how yet, but Alec is too high-strung, too cheerful, moving too fluidly.
“I’m fine,” Ianto grits out. “Peachy keen,” he adds, like something out of an old film.
“Really?” Alec asks, trailing a hand down Ianto’s chest, playful. “Because I nicked that suit off a corpse.”
James Bond Will Return (In Part Two!)