[OS] 53.3: What is your Turn Left moment?
Hands trembling, eyes squeezed shut, he pulled the trigger.
They found him shaking at the edge of a conversion unit, his hands and face covered in blood.
When they released him, he ran. He left his flat as it was, left the landlord to deal with his belongings; he'd have them hauled off, no doubt, when the rent never came. He couldn't bear to be in London, not any longer.
Maybe it was the siren call of a childhood home, and maybe it was just that he had nowhere else to go, but he went to Wales. He arrived, like some old-fashioned cliche, with only the clothes on his back and the cash in his pocket.
He didn't bother renting a room, or a car, or looking up old friends, family with whom he used to be close. None of that seemed important, none necessary.
Instead, he walked from the train station to the Millenium Center, ignoring the bus stops, the taxis. He didn't stop until he sunk to the ground just outside the old, broken down tourist office down in Cardiff Bay, arms around his knees. No one ever came down here, only a few lost travellers and the four people he sought.
And there he waited, on a cool spring evening-- so quickly turned into a cool spring morning, then afternoon-- until he was found.
"Oh," said the woman, her high heels clattering on the pavement as she stepped back and away from him. She probably took him for a vagrant, one of the city's homeless, or even-- considering the youthful looks that Lisa, his Lisa, two years older, had always teased him about-- just a kid, a teenaged runaway. "Hello."
She was beautiful. Ianto realized this belatedly and rather disinterestedly, because beauty didn't matter to him, not really-- not anymore. "Do you need anything?" she was asking when he remembered to listen. The way she spoke, the way she leaned down to him, a hand hovering by his shoulder, was all awkward, just a little unsure. "My name's Toshiko. Is there anything--?"
"No," Ianto said, and because she seemed nice enough, he almost regretted the bitterness. "There's nothing, not anymore."
She hesitated for a few seconds, and then a few more, and then reached into one pocket. "I have a few quid," she explained as she glanced up after a few seconds of fumbling. Her expression was so genuine, so simply kind. "There's a shop around the corner. You can buy something to eat."
"No," he stuttered, thrown by the offer, unexpected as it was. "No, I--"
"He isn't hungry, Tosh." Ianto looked past the woman to the source of the words. Toshiko turned also. A man, tall, imposing, dressed in what looked like vintage military. His jaw set. "Go on inside," he added sternly-- directly to Toshiko, who, after a glance between them that was almost like an apology, almost immediately disappeared into the tourist office.
For a few seconds, they stared at eachother in silence.
Finally, the man spoke again. "Captain Jack Harkness. But I think you know that already, don't you, Ianto Jones?"
He should have, perhaps. He had, after all, come all this way for the single purpose of seeking out this man.
"Ianto Jones," Harkness mused when no answer came. He moved a few steps to one side and then back, pacing. "Born August 19, 1983. Able student but not exceptional, one minor conviction for shoplifting in your teens. Number of temporary jobs, mainly a drifter, until two years ago you join the Torchwood Institute in London. Junior researcher. Girlfriend, Lisa Hallett."
Ianto tried to best to hold back a sob, but he couldn't.
"Deceased," Harkness added, and by then the pause was too long to have been unintentional.
Ianto looked up at him, feeling small and pathetic. And alone. There were no kindred spirits here, nor anywhere. "You know who I am. You looked me up."
"You're outside my base," Harkness went on. "Of course I know who you are. I suppose you want a job." He took another step forward, so that he could look down at Ianto, vulnerable before him. "Well, you can't have one. This isn't Torchwood One, and we don't take leftovers."
"No," Ianto choked out, pained. He opened his mouth to continue, but the words seemed to stick in his throat, and all that came out was another sob. He couldn't imagine it, somehow going on despite the horrors he had seen and what he'd had to do. And with Torchwood, as though it hadn't already taken from him everything he possibly could give-- and then some.
"Then what?" Harkness sighed and straightened, the drape of his coat re-arranging itself dramatically. "No offense, but I don't have time for social calls. Aliens to catch."
"Retcon."
"What?" For the first time, Ianto thought Harkness saw him, really saw him. Suddenly he crouched down beside Ianto, and the expression in his blue eyes was softer, more human. "You want to forget?"
"It burned," Ianto let out, all in a rush. The trembling began anew as he remembered-- as the sights and sounds of that day came tumbling back. "Torchwood One burned. They left us to die. Lisa died. I..." He almost admitted it, but stopped at the last second. He couldn't. "I don't know how to live with the memories."
"Why should I?" Harkness asked harshly, reaching out to grab Ianto's wrist. He tugged it forward. "Two years is a long time, Ianto, and if I take it, I can't give you them back."
"I can't live like this," Ianto said, fighting the tears. His accent broadened as he spoke.
"Not my problem."
Ianto pulled his hand away, the force of it shoving Harkness back--and though he almost lost his balance, his composure remained unshaken. "You weren't there," he spat out, tone accusatory. "But afterwards you salvaged the wreckage with your team. Where were you when it mattered?"
Suddenly, before Harkness could even attempt an answer, Ianto caught sight of an old-fashioned revolver peeking out of an unfastened brown holster. He dove for it, nearly knocking Jack backwards once again in the process.
"I'll do it," he said, voice unsteady, the gun turned toward his own chest with clumsy determination. "I will. Is that what you want, more blood on your hands?"
"No," Harkness said, and Ianto almost believed him.
Ianto Jones
Torchwood
1064 words
They found him shaking at the edge of a conversion unit, his hands and face covered in blood.
When they released him, he ran. He left his flat as it was, left the landlord to deal with his belongings; he'd have them hauled off, no doubt, when the rent never came. He couldn't bear to be in London, not any longer.
Maybe it was the siren call of a childhood home, and maybe it was just that he had nowhere else to go, but he went to Wales. He arrived, like some old-fashioned cliche, with only the clothes on his back and the cash in his pocket.
He didn't bother renting a room, or a car, or looking up old friends, family with whom he used to be close. None of that seemed important, none necessary.
Instead, he walked from the train station to the Millenium Center, ignoring the bus stops, the taxis. He didn't stop until he sunk to the ground just outside the old, broken down tourist office down in Cardiff Bay, arms around his knees. No one ever came down here, only a few lost travellers and the four people he sought.
And there he waited, on a cool spring evening-- so quickly turned into a cool spring morning, then afternoon-- until he was found.
"Oh," said the woman, her high heels clattering on the pavement as she stepped back and away from him. She probably took him for a vagrant, one of the city's homeless, or even-- considering the youthful looks that Lisa, his Lisa, two years older, had always teased him about-- just a kid, a teenaged runaway. "Hello."
She was beautiful. Ianto realized this belatedly and rather disinterestedly, because beauty didn't matter to him, not really-- not anymore. "Do you need anything?" she was asking when he remembered to listen. The way she spoke, the way she leaned down to him, a hand hovering by his shoulder, was all awkward, just a little unsure. "My name's Toshiko. Is there anything--?"
"No," Ianto said, and because she seemed nice enough, he almost regretted the bitterness. "There's nothing, not anymore."
She hesitated for a few seconds, and then a few more, and then reached into one pocket. "I have a few quid," she explained as she glanced up after a few seconds of fumbling. Her expression was so genuine, so simply kind. "There's a shop around the corner. You can buy something to eat."
"No," he stuttered, thrown by the offer, unexpected as it was. "No, I--"
"He isn't hungry, Tosh." Ianto looked past the woman to the source of the words. Toshiko turned also. A man, tall, imposing, dressed in what looked like vintage military. His jaw set. "Go on inside," he added sternly-- directly to Toshiko, who, after a glance between them that was almost like an apology, almost immediately disappeared into the tourist office.
For a few seconds, they stared at eachother in silence.
Finally, the man spoke again. "Captain Jack Harkness. But I think you know that already, don't you, Ianto Jones?"
He should have, perhaps. He had, after all, come all this way for the single purpose of seeking out this man.
"Ianto Jones," Harkness mused when no answer came. He moved a few steps to one side and then back, pacing. "Born August 19, 1983. Able student but not exceptional, one minor conviction for shoplifting in your teens. Number of temporary jobs, mainly a drifter, until two years ago you join the Torchwood Institute in London. Junior researcher. Girlfriend, Lisa Hallett."
Ianto tried to best to hold back a sob, but he couldn't.
"Deceased," Harkness added, and by then the pause was too long to have been unintentional.
Ianto looked up at him, feeling small and pathetic. And alone. There were no kindred spirits here, nor anywhere. "You know who I am. You looked me up."
"You're outside my base," Harkness went on. "Of course I know who you are. I suppose you want a job." He took another step forward, so that he could look down at Ianto, vulnerable before him. "Well, you can't have one. This isn't Torchwood One, and we don't take leftovers."
"No," Ianto choked out, pained. He opened his mouth to continue, but the words seemed to stick in his throat, and all that came out was another sob. He couldn't imagine it, somehow going on despite the horrors he had seen and what he'd had to do. And with Torchwood, as though it hadn't already taken from him everything he possibly could give-- and then some.
"Then what?" Harkness sighed and straightened, the drape of his coat re-arranging itself dramatically. "No offense, but I don't have time for social calls. Aliens to catch."
"Retcon."
"What?" For the first time, Ianto thought Harkness saw him, really saw him. Suddenly he crouched down beside Ianto, and the expression in his blue eyes was softer, more human. "You want to forget?"
"It burned," Ianto let out, all in a rush. The trembling began anew as he remembered-- as the sights and sounds of that day came tumbling back. "Torchwood One burned. They left us to die. Lisa died. I..." He almost admitted it, but stopped at the last second. He couldn't. "I don't know how to live with the memories."
"Why should I?" Harkness asked harshly, reaching out to grab Ianto's wrist. He tugged it forward. "Two years is a long time, Ianto, and if I take it, I can't give you them back."
"I can't live like this," Ianto said, fighting the tears. His accent broadened as he spoke.
"Not my problem."
Ianto pulled his hand away, the force of it shoving Harkness back--and though he almost lost his balance, his composure remained unshaken. "You weren't there," he spat out, tone accusatory. "But afterwards you salvaged the wreckage with your team. Where were you when it mattered?"
Suddenly, before Harkness could even attempt an answer, Ianto caught sight of an old-fashioned revolver peeking out of an unfastened brown holster. He dove for it, nearly knocking Jack backwards once again in the process.
"I'll do it," he said, voice unsteady, the gun turned toward his own chest with clumsy determination. "I will. Is that what you want, more blood on your hands?"
"No," Harkness said, and Ianto almost believed him.
Ianto Jones
Torchwood
1064 words