Writer in a Drawer Entries
In the ongoing project of keeping all the fic in one place, I thought I'd record my old writerinadrawer entries that I'm not planning on expanding any further. There are still a couple left that aren't archived on this journal yet, but hopefully those will flower into actual full length stories at some point.
Title: Time Loop
Summary: Two weeks; five years.
Pairing: Jack/John
Rating: R
Warning: bloodplay
Spoilers: TW 2x01: Kiss, Kiss, Bang, Bang
Wordcount: 100 exactly.
Note: Written for writerinadrawer, round 3x01. Theme: Drabble; added element: zoo animal.
again-- SHIT!"
"How many times've you thrown that glass? Learn a new trick... oh, you have! Hello, soldier! Give it to me good."
"Love… slicing… you… open."
"God, yes."
***
"Incoming!"
"Are those tigers?! Fuck!"
"See you in hell."
"Isn't this it?"
"There'd be less sex."
***
"How long's it bloody been?"
"A week."
"But how long's it been?"
"Longer than that."
***
"Killed fewer people this go-round."
"Congratulations."
"Bit less fun, actually. Spoilsport. Still, s'kinda... nice, us looping. Like being… married."
"Nice?! You or I get any crazier, wife, I just might kill you."
"Fancy that!"
"I'm serious. I do this loop
Title: Quid Pro Quo
Summary: You think Suzie only had one contingency plan?
Pairing/Characters: Ianto/Lisa, Suzie
Rating: R
Warning: none
Wordcount: 400
Note: Written for writerinadrawer, Round 3x02. Theme: a favor; added element: a foreign city (to your character).
Ianto waits, as he was told to, by the Hachikō statue in Shibuya Station.
He is disconcerted to note that despite his recent encounters with terror and anguish (the machine the girl all intertwined), he can still be dumbfounded by a maxipad advert that seems to illustrate what would happen if ball-jointed Sailor-Moon dolls met the menstrual cycle. (She is begging him to save her, kill her, save her. He can do neither.)
If aliens descended on Tokyo, Ianto wonders frantically to distract himself, how would anyone even notice?
"Jones?" someone says.
He starts, and then nods.
"Password?"
"…MacCoisdealbha."
The man hisses sharply. "She sent you?!" (When the woman appears, and slowly, methodically shifts them from under the rubble, at first Ianto thinks he has finally died. When she manhandles them into a van, he can't even muster up the curiosity to ask where they're going; all he can do is stare at his Lisa, body ravaged and supplanted by post-apocalyptic chrome. "I'm Suzie," the woman says. Her smile is friendly, but there's a blade in it somewhere, and Ianto would have been afraid, if there were fear left in this world gone mad.)
Ianto wants to run screaming from the man's accusing gaze. But he won't. "I've come to learn the basic theory. She's… unconnected," he says. (When he begs Suzie to help him fix Lisa, she says, brightly, "Define fix," as she retrieves a hypodermic. Lisa is dangerous, Suzie tells him. Her words seem at odds with the fingers that lovingly stroke the line between flesh and metal. Ianto fights the surge of rage; Lisa belongs to him, even like this.)
Silence. Distantly, Ianto wonders if it will end here, if maybe it should. ("What do you want? I'll do anything," he pleads with her. Seemingly randomly, she asks, "D'you hate Torchwood, Ianto?" "It did this to her!" he spits. But Lisa was Torchwood, Suzie points out, so she did it to herself. She asks if he still loves this new Lisa. He nods. Something seems broken behind Suzie's eyes. He wonders if it's her or his own reflection.)
But apparently, fate will not intervene. "Come," the man says finally. "Dr. Tanizaki awaits." (They're safe if he follows her directions, Suzie says happily, because they're ideal for her…'collection'. He doesn't understand, but he agrees.)
He'll worry for the bill later. ("You're perfect. Jack… Jack will like you.")
Title: Days of Future Past
Summary: Cardiff gets its own Museum of Sex. Two guesses as to who's involved and the first one doesn't count.
Pairing/Characters: Gwen, John Hart, Jack
Rating: standard
Warning: none
Spoilers: vague for Children of Earth
Wordcount: 400
Note: Written for writerinadrawer, Round 3x03. Theme: signage; added element: hand signal, gesture or sign.
The door looked transparent, but its surface reflected outward, making it impossible to see clearly through it, though if one looked very closely, indistinct shapes could be faintly made out, moving somewhere behind the glass.
Gwen leaned against her car, and took a casual sip of her coffee, her eyes still fixed on the strange door and its eyebrow-raising signage. It wasn’t that she begrudged anyone a nice spot of titillating, educational fun at a museum of sex, but this building seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. She was positive it hadn’t been there when she’d passed by this road yesterday.
When she finally pushed the door open, a voice greeted her. "Was wondering when you’d decide to stop faffing about and walk in, luv." Gwen’s eyes narrowed. "We don’t bite… unless you ask nicely, of course."
"What’re you doing here, Hart?" she hissed, hand reaching for her gun instinctively. "Did we not make it clear that Cardiff is very much off limits? You think because Jack is gone, you can just--"
"Think you’re mistaking me for someone else, pet," he said. "Name’s Jerry. Course, with a face like that, you can call me --"
"Vera, right?" Gwen sputtered. "Are you bloody joking, man? You used the same line on me first time we met."
"You might’ve met me," Hart said, grinning. "I don’t know you, though. Don’t tell me I come back to this shitty little planet again!" In a flash, he had a gun against her temple. "This won’t… well, no, it will probably hurt. Please say you don’t return this favor when I see you next."
Gwen swallowed. "You’re… still a Time Agent?"
Hart blinked. "Boeshane!" he shouted, gun still on her. "We’ve been ID’d!"
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw someone step off an exhibit platform, caught a glimpse of naked flesh, and a hand gesturing Hart away. Grumbling, he stepped back.
She turned, and there, looking young, happy, and naked was… Jack.
"She’s too pretty to lose," he said, with a wink. "I’m pulling the plug."
"Top brass’ll have forty fits."
"Don’t care. They can’t kill me. I know too much."
Hart shook his head. "They've got ways with that too."
Jack shrugged. "Call it a whim."
"'Please don’t lick the exhibits'… and you’re the exhibit?" she blurted.
"Tragic waste, huh? I was made to be... mounted, don't you think? Plus, now we're walking away, and I don't even get to know you either."
Don’t come back here, she wanted to cry. Ever. Because by the time she’d met him, the glint in his eyes had dimmed, and when he’d left, there’d been nothing left of it but ash.
But then he’d never love his teams. Ianto. Cardiff.
"You will," she said, feeling herself smile through the tears that threatened to spill.
Title: Astrolabe
Summary: They stole the stars out of the sky and put them in your eyes.
Pairing/Characters: Jack/Ianto
Rating: mature/explicit
Warning: s&m, bloodplay
Spoilers: none
Wordcount: 500
Note: Written for writerinadrawer, Round 3x04. Theme: learning lessons; added element: a school supply.
"I can’t believe the Plztgrlb coagulate actually dimorphed." Jack eyed the screen suspiciously. "Are you sure you didn’t fudge the data?"
"I’m amazed that you’d cast such aspersions on my honesty, sir."
"Okay, okay." Jack turned his head to grin at Ianto, who was standing behind him. "A bet's a bet. One week of filing-free time for Ianto Jones, coming up."
"It doesn't count if I have the week’s work waiting for me at the end of it, mind."
"But--"
"But what?" Ianto said. "Are you about to tell me that filing and cataloguing is somehow beneath you?"
"Of course not! It’s just that… I don’t exactly… know how?"
Ianto rolled his eyes. "I’ll teach you. I’m sure you’ll pick it up in no time."
***
Jack lay supine on the floor of the archives, the rough concrete cold underneath him. If he raised his head, just a little -- which was all he could manage, bound as he was -- he could see the arc of his cock, jutting forward, furiously red and engorged.
"Rubber bands," Ianto said, satisfaction clear in his voice. "I had an intimation that they’d make excellent cock rings, if utilised appropriately."
"They kind of… hurt," he got out, panting slightly.
"You seem to be enjoying yourself." Rolling up his sleeves, Ianto knelt astride him, then retrieved a single sheet of paper, examining its edge with a predatory smile.
"Oh, I am," Jack assured him, even as he felt his mouth suddenly going dry.
"Don’t worry. I’m sure there isn’t actually any such thing as death by paper-cuts."
"That’s… what I’m… afraid of," he said, his words interspersed by gasps, as Ianto delicately sliced into his skin a series of small vertical lines that marked their way across his chest and thighs at regular intervals.
"Nothing teaches one to file more effectively than paper-cuts. They encourage a certain painstakingness, if you will."
Finally, Ianto set aside the sheet, and from his shirt pocket, produced a fountain pen. With deft strokes, he began to ink in tiny letters and numbers between the thin red lines. The contrast of the sharp nib and the cool, wet ink made Jack groan.
"Say it aloud as I write," Ianto ordered.
"Star. By Me-ss-ier nu-m-ber," Jack ground out slowly. He could feel every curve, every line, as the pen etched its way across his skin, down the length of his body. "By time-ve-c-tor. By M-dimen-sion…"
Finally Ianto stopped.
Jack sucked in air, his cock still hard, still reaching, it seemed, for the sky. "Doesn't it ever bother you?" he asked hoarsely, every inch of skin humming. "Reducing all the wonder out there to name, number and file?"
"This from the man who wanks to The Office?"
"Point," he admitted.
"Besides, sir," Ianto said, studying Jack laid out before him, catalogue of space and time printed on his flesh, "it still looks fairly wondrous from here.
Title: Chrysalis
Summary: "I tried to save the Shire, and it has been saved, but not for me. It must often be so, when things are in danger: someone has to give them up, lose them, so that others may keep them." - J.R.R. Tolkien
Pairing/Characters: Jack/Ianto
Rating: standard
Warning: none
Spoilers: Children of Earth
Wordcount: 700
Note: Written for writerinadrawer, Round 3x06. Theme: amnesia; added element: a television show.
He wakes up slowly, as if clawing his way up from a very deep well. He's in what seems, at first bleary glance, to be an ordinary room. The trouble is, he doesn't recognize it. And he has absolutely no idea where he is, or how he got there.
Okay, he thinks. There's an explanation. Must be. What's the last thing I can remember?
A great yawning pit opens up in his stomach, as he shuffles back through his memory, and can discover… nothing. Well, not quite nothing; it's as if someone's replaced his memory with disconnected, meaningless photos of someone else's extremely odd life. Unfamiliar faces are the least of it. There're also buildings that seem to be made of water, strange devices and creatures, explosions. Lots of those.
What the hell is going on?
Panicking, he casts aside his blankets, and gets to his feet. Looking down, he sees that he's wearing silky black boxers. Somehow, this feels wrong. He doesn't know much about himself, but he does know that he's more of a y-front type. After all, boxers ruin the line of the suit. Hmmm. He puts suit-wearing at the top of the mental list he's compiling. Perhaps he's rich, and someone has kidnapped him? Right, and left him here alone in this room, unbound and unguarded...
Seems unlikely.
There's a lamp by his bed, a tall, skinny, metallic object, with a glowing globe at the top. No lampshade. He looks for its plug, to no avail. Battery operated? Maybe. It'll probably work as a club, anyway. Cautiously, lamp in hand, he creeps to one of three doors in the room. At his careful approach, the door slides open with a whoosh, and he leaps about a meter into the air.
It turns out to be the bathroom. It also turns out to be empty.
He finds himself laughing humourlessly - I must look so ridiculous - but still holding the lamp - better safe than sorry - he heads for the next door. This one turns out to open onto a hallway lined with identical doors. A hotel? He shuts the door quickly before some other guest sees him.
Back inside, he looks around the room again, scouring it for more clues. He realises that what he had initially labeled a window is actually a giant screen showing a hyper-realistic image of a window. He touches it curiously and then everything… wobbles. When it stops, the walls have vanished right the fuck around him, and out of nowhere, people have just… appeared.
Instinctively, he dives to take one of them down, but there's nothing there, and he skids painfully across the floor instead. When he gets his breath back, he realizes the people are still there, and carrying on a conversation with one another as if nothing has happened. Gingerly, he reaches out to touch a nearby foot, and his hand just goes straight through.
Well, I think I just discovered this hotel's version of television. And it's… holographic. Should this be surprising? He isn't sure. Frowning, he adds "combat-ready" to the list. Secret government agent?
Then, on the realistic horizon (once the back wall of the room), letters flash, spelling out: MESSAGE WAITING. Nervously, he extends a hand in their general direction. The people disappear, and he's back where he awoke.
Only now there's another projection: a strange man in a sweeping, navy coat, standing there. "The year's 4211. You can't remember, but you used to work for me," he says.
Definitely secret agent.
"Things went pear-shaped. Unnecessarily, for you. My fault. So later, when I could, I went back and got you out. Wasn't easy justifying it to… myself, but… Anyway. Doesn't matter. Clothes're in the cupboard. Money. Information about where you are, and what to do. Training programs. You'll adapt." His voice softens. "You always do. It's easier not remembering. Away from me, you'll be safe. You'll make new memories. Better ones. I saved your life, Ianto Jones. So... live it well."
The image blinks out.
"Ianto Jones," he repeats consideringly. Probably not his real name, but he supposes it'll do. Live. He thinks he will. After all, consider the alternative.
He goes to look for the clothes. And whatever comes next.
Title: Time Loop
Summary: Two weeks; five years.
Pairing: Jack/John
Rating: R
Warning: bloodplay
Spoilers: TW 2x01: Kiss, Kiss, Bang, Bang
Wordcount: 100 exactly.
Note: Written for writerinadrawer, round 3x01. Theme: Drabble; added element: zoo animal.
again-- SHIT!"
"How many times've you thrown that glass? Learn a new trick... oh, you have! Hello, soldier! Give it to me good."
"Love… slicing… you… open."
"God, yes."
***
"Incoming!"
"Are those tigers?! Fuck!"
"See you in hell."
"Isn't this it?"
"There'd be less sex."
***
"How long's it bloody been?"
"A week."
"But how long's it been?"
"Longer than that."
***
"Killed fewer people this go-round."
"Congratulations."
"Bit less fun, actually. Spoilsport. Still, s'kinda... nice, us looping. Like being… married."
"Nice?! You or I get any crazier, wife, I just might kill you."
"Fancy that!"
"I'm serious. I do this loop
Title: Quid Pro Quo
Summary: You think Suzie only had one contingency plan?
Pairing/Characters: Ianto/Lisa, Suzie
Rating: R
Warning: none
Wordcount: 400
Note: Written for writerinadrawer, Round 3x02. Theme: a favor; added element: a foreign city (to your character).
Ianto waits, as he was told to, by the Hachikō statue in Shibuya Station.
He is disconcerted to note that despite his recent encounters with terror and anguish (the machine the girl all intertwined), he can still be dumbfounded by a maxipad advert that seems to illustrate what would happen if ball-jointed Sailor-Moon dolls met the menstrual cycle. (She is begging him to save her, kill her, save her. He can do neither.)
If aliens descended on Tokyo, Ianto wonders frantically to distract himself, how would anyone even notice?
"Jones?" someone says.
He starts, and then nods.
"Password?"
"…MacCoisdealbha."
The man hisses sharply. "She sent you?!" (When the woman appears, and slowly, methodically shifts them from under the rubble, at first Ianto thinks he has finally died. When she manhandles them into a van, he can't even muster up the curiosity to ask where they're going; all he can do is stare at his Lisa, body ravaged and supplanted by post-apocalyptic chrome. "I'm Suzie," the woman says. Her smile is friendly, but there's a blade in it somewhere, and Ianto would have been afraid, if there were fear left in this world gone mad.)
Ianto wants to run screaming from the man's accusing gaze. But he won't. "I've come to learn the basic theory. She's… unconnected," he says. (When he begs Suzie to help him fix Lisa, she says, brightly, "Define fix," as she retrieves a hypodermic. Lisa is dangerous, Suzie tells him. Her words seem at odds with the fingers that lovingly stroke the line between flesh and metal. Ianto fights the surge of rage; Lisa belongs to him, even like this.)
Silence. Distantly, Ianto wonders if it will end here, if maybe it should. ("What do you want? I'll do anything," he pleads with her. Seemingly randomly, she asks, "D'you hate Torchwood, Ianto?" "It did this to her!" he spits. But Lisa was Torchwood, Suzie points out, so she did it to herself. She asks if he still loves this new Lisa. He nods. Something seems broken behind Suzie's eyes. He wonders if it's her or his own reflection.)
But apparently, fate will not intervene. "Come," the man says finally. "Dr. Tanizaki awaits." (They're safe if he follows her directions, Suzie says happily, because they're ideal for her…'collection'. He doesn't understand, but he agrees.)
He'll worry for the bill later. ("You're perfect. Jack… Jack will like you.")
Title: Days of Future Past
Summary: Cardiff gets its own Museum of Sex. Two guesses as to who's involved and the first one doesn't count.
Pairing/Characters: Gwen, John Hart, Jack
Rating: standard
Warning: none
Spoilers: vague for Children of Earth
Wordcount: 400
Note: Written for writerinadrawer, Round 3x03. Theme: signage; added element: hand signal, gesture or sign.
The door looked transparent, but its surface reflected outward, making it impossible to see clearly through it, though if one looked very closely, indistinct shapes could be faintly made out, moving somewhere behind the glass.
Gwen leaned against her car, and took a casual sip of her coffee, her eyes still fixed on the strange door and its eyebrow-raising signage. It wasn’t that she begrudged anyone a nice spot of titillating, educational fun at a museum of sex, but this building seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. She was positive it hadn’t been there when she’d passed by this road yesterday.
When she finally pushed the door open, a voice greeted her. "Was wondering when you’d decide to stop faffing about and walk in, luv." Gwen’s eyes narrowed. "We don’t bite… unless you ask nicely, of course."
"What’re you doing here, Hart?" she hissed, hand reaching for her gun instinctively. "Did we not make it clear that Cardiff is very much off limits? You think because Jack is gone, you can just--"
"Think you’re mistaking me for someone else, pet," he said. "Name’s Jerry. Course, with a face like that, you can call me --"
"Vera, right?" Gwen sputtered. "Are you bloody joking, man? You used the same line on me first time we met."
"You might’ve met me," Hart said, grinning. "I don’t know you, though. Don’t tell me I come back to this shitty little planet again!" In a flash, he had a gun against her temple. "This won’t… well, no, it will probably hurt. Please say you don’t return this favor when I see you next."
Gwen swallowed. "You’re… still a Time Agent?"
Hart blinked. "Boeshane!" he shouted, gun still on her. "We’ve been ID’d!"
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw someone step off an exhibit platform, caught a glimpse of naked flesh, and a hand gesturing Hart away. Grumbling, he stepped back.
She turned, and there, looking young, happy, and naked was… Jack.
"She’s too pretty to lose," he said, with a wink. "I’m pulling the plug."
"Top brass’ll have forty fits."
"Don’t care. They can’t kill me. I know too much."
Hart shook his head. "They've got ways with that too."
Jack shrugged. "Call it a whim."
"'Please don’t lick the exhibits'… and you’re the exhibit?" she blurted.
"Tragic waste, huh? I was made to be... mounted, don't you think? Plus, now we're walking away, and I don't even get to know you either."
Don’t come back here, she wanted to cry. Ever. Because by the time she’d met him, the glint in his eyes had dimmed, and when he’d left, there’d been nothing left of it but ash.
But then he’d never love his teams. Ianto. Cardiff.
"You will," she said, feeling herself smile through the tears that threatened to spill.
Title: Astrolabe
Summary: They stole the stars out of the sky and put them in your eyes.
Pairing/Characters: Jack/Ianto
Rating: mature/explicit
Warning: s&m, bloodplay
Spoilers: none
Wordcount: 500
Note: Written for writerinadrawer, Round 3x04. Theme: learning lessons; added element: a school supply.
"I can’t believe the Plztgrlb coagulate actually dimorphed." Jack eyed the screen suspiciously. "Are you sure you didn’t fudge the data?"
"I’m amazed that you’d cast such aspersions on my honesty, sir."
"Okay, okay." Jack turned his head to grin at Ianto, who was standing behind him. "A bet's a bet. One week of filing-free time for Ianto Jones, coming up."
"It doesn't count if I have the week’s work waiting for me at the end of it, mind."
"But--"
"But what?" Ianto said. "Are you about to tell me that filing and cataloguing is somehow beneath you?"
"Of course not! It’s just that… I don’t exactly… know how?"
Ianto rolled his eyes. "I’ll teach you. I’m sure you’ll pick it up in no time."
***
Jack lay supine on the floor of the archives, the rough concrete cold underneath him. If he raised his head, just a little -- which was all he could manage, bound as he was -- he could see the arc of his cock, jutting forward, furiously red and engorged.
"Rubber bands," Ianto said, satisfaction clear in his voice. "I had an intimation that they’d make excellent cock rings, if utilised appropriately."
"They kind of… hurt," he got out, panting slightly.
"You seem to be enjoying yourself." Rolling up his sleeves, Ianto knelt astride him, then retrieved a single sheet of paper, examining its edge with a predatory smile.
"Oh, I am," Jack assured him, even as he felt his mouth suddenly going dry.
"Don’t worry. I’m sure there isn’t actually any such thing as death by paper-cuts."
"That’s… what I’m… afraid of," he said, his words interspersed by gasps, as Ianto delicately sliced into his skin a series of small vertical lines that marked their way across his chest and thighs at regular intervals.
"Nothing teaches one to file more effectively than paper-cuts. They encourage a certain painstakingness, if you will."
Finally, Ianto set aside the sheet, and from his shirt pocket, produced a fountain pen. With deft strokes, he began to ink in tiny letters and numbers between the thin red lines. The contrast of the sharp nib and the cool, wet ink made Jack groan.
"Say it aloud as I write," Ianto ordered.
"Star. By Me-ss-ier nu-m-ber," Jack ground out slowly. He could feel every curve, every line, as the pen etched its way across his skin, down the length of his body. "By time-ve-c-tor. By M-dimen-sion…"
Finally Ianto stopped.
Jack sucked in air, his cock still hard, still reaching, it seemed, for the sky. "Doesn't it ever bother you?" he asked hoarsely, every inch of skin humming. "Reducing all the wonder out there to name, number and file?"
"This from the man who wanks to The Office?"
"Point," he admitted.
"Besides, sir," Ianto said, studying Jack laid out before him, catalogue of space and time printed on his flesh, "it still looks fairly wondrous from here.
Title: Chrysalis
Summary: "I tried to save the Shire, and it has been saved, but not for me. It must often be so, when things are in danger: someone has to give them up, lose them, so that others may keep them." - J.R.R. Tolkien
Pairing/Characters: Jack/Ianto
Rating: standard
Warning: none
Spoilers: Children of Earth
Wordcount: 700
Note: Written for writerinadrawer, Round 3x06. Theme: amnesia; added element: a television show.
He wakes up slowly, as if clawing his way up from a very deep well. He's in what seems, at first bleary glance, to be an ordinary room. The trouble is, he doesn't recognize it. And he has absolutely no idea where he is, or how he got there.
Okay, he thinks. There's an explanation. Must be. What's the last thing I can remember?
A great yawning pit opens up in his stomach, as he shuffles back through his memory, and can discover… nothing. Well, not quite nothing; it's as if someone's replaced his memory with disconnected, meaningless photos of someone else's extremely odd life. Unfamiliar faces are the least of it. There're also buildings that seem to be made of water, strange devices and creatures, explosions. Lots of those.
What the hell is going on?
Panicking, he casts aside his blankets, and gets to his feet. Looking down, he sees that he's wearing silky black boxers. Somehow, this feels wrong. He doesn't know much about himself, but he does know that he's more of a y-front type. After all, boxers ruin the line of the suit. Hmmm. He puts suit-wearing at the top of the mental list he's compiling. Perhaps he's rich, and someone has kidnapped him? Right, and left him here alone in this room, unbound and unguarded...
Seems unlikely.
There's a lamp by his bed, a tall, skinny, metallic object, with a glowing globe at the top. No lampshade. He looks for its plug, to no avail. Battery operated? Maybe. It'll probably work as a club, anyway. Cautiously, lamp in hand, he creeps to one of three doors in the room. At his careful approach, the door slides open with a whoosh, and he leaps about a meter into the air.
It turns out to be the bathroom. It also turns out to be empty.
He finds himself laughing humourlessly - I must look so ridiculous - but still holding the lamp - better safe than sorry - he heads for the next door. This one turns out to open onto a hallway lined with identical doors. A hotel? He shuts the door quickly before some other guest sees him.
Back inside, he looks around the room again, scouring it for more clues. He realises that what he had initially labeled a window is actually a giant screen showing a hyper-realistic image of a window. He touches it curiously and then everything… wobbles. When it stops, the walls have vanished right the fuck around him, and out of nowhere, people have just… appeared.
Instinctively, he dives to take one of them down, but there's nothing there, and he skids painfully across the floor instead. When he gets his breath back, he realizes the people are still there, and carrying on a conversation with one another as if nothing has happened. Gingerly, he reaches out to touch a nearby foot, and his hand just goes straight through.
Well, I think I just discovered this hotel's version of television. And it's… holographic. Should this be surprising? He isn't sure. Frowning, he adds "combat-ready" to the list. Secret government agent?
Then, on the realistic horizon (once the back wall of the room), letters flash, spelling out: MESSAGE WAITING. Nervously, he extends a hand in their general direction. The people disappear, and he's back where he awoke.
Only now there's another projection: a strange man in a sweeping, navy coat, standing there. "The year's 4211. You can't remember, but you used to work for me," he says.
Definitely secret agent.
"Things went pear-shaped. Unnecessarily, for you. My fault. So later, when I could, I went back and got you out. Wasn't easy justifying it to… myself, but… Anyway. Doesn't matter. Clothes're in the cupboard. Money. Information about where you are, and what to do. Training programs. You'll adapt." His voice softens. "You always do. It's easier not remembering. Away from me, you'll be safe. You'll make new memories. Better ones. I saved your life, Ianto Jones. So... live it well."
The image blinks out.
"Ianto Jones," he repeats consideringly. Probably not his real name, but he supposes it'll do. Live. He thinks he will. After all, consider the alternative.
He goes to look for the clothes. And whatever comes next.