prose : ianto jones' wonderful week of woe
Ianto Jones' Wonderful Week of Woe
a week in the life of Ianto Jones
A series of daily updates recording a week as reported by one Ianto Jones, dated the 18th to the 22nd of February.
Monday
Got to work a bit earlier than usual - had to look over some items in the archives. Not entirely sure whether their intentions are pain or pleasure based but will ask Jack. Made three cups of coffee by 10am, proof that I am now an addict. Long lost is the days when tea was my poison, my greatest sin two sugars. Now it is caffeine all the way.
Must remember to buy more filters.
Tosh and I went through the new rift monitoring programs today. Very shiny. I must congratulate whoever makes the Torchwood computers on the lovely interface. Who does make the Torchwood computers? Gwen and Owen spent the day doing a spot of weevil watching. I'd prefer whales, but there you go.
---
Where red should've been, there was now blue. Through the smallest gap between his eyelashes he could just make out the cerulean flickering of a monitor in the far side of the hub. He opened his eyes a little more. Slowly, the hub came into focus, bleary eyes clearing by the second, revealing the dark surroundings. He'd fallen asleep on the sofa. It was a wonder that Jack hadn't woken him, but the Captain had gone out late the previous night and Ianto had obviously slipped into the world of sleep before his return. He stretched. With a pang of horror he realised that his once perfectly ironed shirt was now creased beyond all hope, rolled up sleeves lined and wrinkled. Even his waistcoat seemed to have a sleep-induced limpness to it's pressed folds and starched pocket flaps.
"Oh hell," he muttered, without any real feeling.
His neck was stiff as he sat up. Gently, he kneaded his left shoulder muscles with his right hand, gasping in slight pain at the tightness he found. The skin under his shirt was warm with sleep, almost too warm. He couldn't spend many more nights cooped up in small spaces at the hub. He needed his bed at home, despite the cold sheets and absence of life to be found in the darkened rooms of his house.
"Jack?" he called, wandering up the stairs to Jack's office. He rapped his knuckles on the door lightly before entering, wondering if it was too much to hope that Jack would allow him a few extra hours sleep in his bed. His eyes felt gritty as he rubbed them. "Jack?"
There was a ruffling of bedclothes, as though Jack was just beginning to stir, before a voice floated up to him from the steel hatch in the floor of Jack's office. "That you, Ianto?"
Ianto popped his head down the hatch and was greeted with a wide grin. "Morning," he said, voice still groggy with sleep, but his return smile was no less affectionate. "Coffee?"
Jack rolled his eyes and sat up, gesturing for Ianto to come down the tiny step ladder that led to his small bedroom. Carefully, Ianto grasped on to the narrow rails and slipped into the small cabin. It suited Jack, this enigma of a room below the depths of Torchwood, housing him in secrecy. Everything about it felt of age, of past days, of things gone by. Dust and decades. It was though it hung in the air, suspended, the smell of a time that had come before them. A dim lamp that could've easily been housed on the desk of a 1940's bank clerk; a sepia photograph of a squadron in full regalia, laughing merrily; a book that looked as though it had been reread ten times or more, one that Ianto would bet a whole month's salary read first edition in neat, small letters on the front page. They were all things that made up Jack, and it was for that reason Ianto loved each and every one in it's own way.
Lifting up the covers, Jack encouraged Ianto to crawl into his bed beside him. Once Ianto had kicked off his shoes, (too tired for laces, he thought sleepily,) Jack slipped an arm under his back and held him loosely. Ianto's own left arm draped casually over Jack's stomach as he all but curled into Jack's side. They didn't normally do this - intimacy was never a thing which they had agreed on - but Ianto was too tired to register the unnatural nature of the situation as he placed his head on Jack's shoulder and tried to stifle a yawn.
"Find weevils?" he asked in a disconnected, sleepy haze. He felt, rather than heard, Jack's deep chuckle.
"A few. All locked safely in the cells for you to care and nurture. I know how much you like me bringing home stray pets."
Jack's breathing ruffled the hair on top of Ianto's head as he turned to place a kiss there. Against Ianto's cheek, Jack's chest was warm and comforting.
"I was thinking..." Jack began, feeling the flutterings of something stir in his stomach. "Ianto?"
But Ianto had already fallen fast asleep.
a week in the life of Ianto Jones
A series of daily updates recording a week as reported by one Ianto Jones, dated the 18th to the 22nd of February.
Monday
Got to work a bit earlier than usual - had to look over some items in the archives. Not entirely sure whether their intentions are pain or pleasure based but will ask Jack. Made three cups of coffee by 10am, proof that I am now an addict. Long lost is the days when tea was my poison, my greatest sin two sugars. Now it is caffeine all the way.
Must remember to buy more filters.
Tosh and I went through the new rift monitoring programs today. Very shiny. I must congratulate whoever makes the Torchwood computers on the lovely interface. Who does make the Torchwood computers? Gwen and Owen spent the day doing a spot of weevil watching. I'd prefer whales, but there you go.
---
Where red should've been, there was now blue. Through the smallest gap between his eyelashes he could just make out the cerulean flickering of a monitor in the far side of the hub. He opened his eyes a little more. Slowly, the hub came into focus, bleary eyes clearing by the second, revealing the dark surroundings. He'd fallen asleep on the sofa. It was a wonder that Jack hadn't woken him, but the Captain had gone out late the previous night and Ianto had obviously slipped into the world of sleep before his return. He stretched. With a pang of horror he realised that his once perfectly ironed shirt was now creased beyond all hope, rolled up sleeves lined and wrinkled. Even his waistcoat seemed to have a sleep-induced limpness to it's pressed folds and starched pocket flaps.
"Oh hell," he muttered, without any real feeling.
His neck was stiff as he sat up. Gently, he kneaded his left shoulder muscles with his right hand, gasping in slight pain at the tightness he found. The skin under his shirt was warm with sleep, almost too warm. He couldn't spend many more nights cooped up in small spaces at the hub. He needed his bed at home, despite the cold sheets and absence of life to be found in the darkened rooms of his house.
"Jack?" he called, wandering up the stairs to Jack's office. He rapped his knuckles on the door lightly before entering, wondering if it was too much to hope that Jack would allow him a few extra hours sleep in his bed. His eyes felt gritty as he rubbed them. "Jack?"
There was a ruffling of bedclothes, as though Jack was just beginning to stir, before a voice floated up to him from the steel hatch in the floor of Jack's office. "That you, Ianto?"
Ianto popped his head down the hatch and was greeted with a wide grin. "Morning," he said, voice still groggy with sleep, but his return smile was no less affectionate. "Coffee?"
Jack rolled his eyes and sat up, gesturing for Ianto to come down the tiny step ladder that led to his small bedroom. Carefully, Ianto grasped on to the narrow rails and slipped into the small cabin. It suited Jack, this enigma of a room below the depths of Torchwood, housing him in secrecy. Everything about it felt of age, of past days, of things gone by. Dust and decades. It was though it hung in the air, suspended, the smell of a time that had come before them. A dim lamp that could've easily been housed on the desk of a 1940's bank clerk; a sepia photograph of a squadron in full regalia, laughing merrily; a book that looked as though it had been reread ten times or more, one that Ianto would bet a whole month's salary read first edition in neat, small letters on the front page. They were all things that made up Jack, and it was for that reason Ianto loved each and every one in it's own way.
Lifting up the covers, Jack encouraged Ianto to crawl into his bed beside him. Once Ianto had kicked off his shoes, (too tired for laces, he thought sleepily,) Jack slipped an arm under his back and held him loosely. Ianto's own left arm draped casually over Jack's stomach as he all but curled into Jack's side. They didn't normally do this - intimacy was never a thing which they had agreed on - but Ianto was too tired to register the unnatural nature of the situation as he placed his head on Jack's shoulder and tried to stifle a yawn.
"Find weevils?" he asked in a disconnected, sleepy haze. He felt, rather than heard, Jack's deep chuckle.
"A few. All locked safely in the cells for you to care and nurture. I know how much you like me bringing home stray pets."
Jack's breathing ruffled the hair on top of Ianto's head as he turned to place a kiss there. Against Ianto's cheek, Jack's chest was warm and comforting.
"I was thinking..." Jack began, feeling the flutterings of something stir in his stomach. "Ianto?"
But Ianto had already fallen fast asleep.