might not be up to my usual
Title: Another ordinary day at the office…Until
Summary: Ianto’s daily schedule changes.
A/N: The italicised bit it almost identical to an Army advert I saw on the bus a few months ago, which made me giggle. I wrote it down (having nothing better to do on the bus) and I found it while clearing out my room last week (its amazing what turns up when you throw the crap out). Thought I would make a fic out of it. So credit to the promotional team at the British Army for that!
pairing: Jack and Ianto at the end. the VERY end. because it was the only way i could make it all fit in the way i wanted it to. sort of anyway...
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Alarm goes off. Press snooze.
Of all the things Ianto Jones disliked in the universe, there was only one thing he truly loathed with every fibre of his being. The infuriatingly irritating noise his alarm made at 0630 every morning of every morning of every week. Which wanker was it that got paid to decide that your morning wake up call should sound akin to a heart monitor attatched to a mega phone? Who ever it was should be shot. As should the tosser who paid him for the idea. Repeatedly. He started to dose off again.
Alarm goes off again. Wake up.
He bashed the off button on top of the clock, cursing his lack of decent sleep. He hadn’t had a single day off since he joined Torchwood London a year before. No rest for the wicked. Work started too early and finished too late. Torchwood wasn’t a nine to five job. Unless, of course, your name was Yvonne Hartman. Then you could turn up and fuck off as and when you pleased. Ianto’s was a start at 0730 and finish at 2200. And those were the good days.
Get up. Go to the loo. Get washed. Get dressed.
As he pulled on his immaculately pressed suit, Ianto considered what about his job he actually enjoyed. Being Junior Researcher down the “dungeon” (meaning basement) of the Torchwood Tower was hardly the most fun filled job in the world, and came with few perks. There were two. One was that he got to drink decent coffee due to the fantastic coffee machine, and the other was the fact that he got to tinker with stuff that most people could only dream of. Aliens. Time shifts. Artefacts from places beyond human comprehension. Amazing things.
Rush breakfast.
He grabbed a piece of toast and stuck it in his mouth as he grabbed his travel mug off the side and ran for the front door.
Check for keys, wallet, mobile. Leave house. Start car. Turn on radio.
Ianto swung out of his driveway, his mouth still full of toast, the rest of the slice on the dashboard. He turned out of his street and headed towards the motorway.
Get stuck in traffic.
Seven in the morning, and the traffic was at a standstill. What he wouldn’t give for Welsh country roads. He turned off his engine. No point in wasting petrol, he mused as the traffic report came in.
“Traffic is at a standstill on the M25 in both directions, with big tail backs on either side from junction 10, still not sure what’s causing the problems there but try and avoid it if you can.” The overly chipper voice of the girl reading the report did nothing for Ianto’s mood. It never did.
“Oh yeah. Great. Thanks for telling me that now,” he grumbled, reaching for his coffee. “Oh bollocks!”
He’d forgotten to put the water in. He stared at the now useless instant granules menacingly for a moment before sticking the cup back in it’s holder and picking up his remaining, and now cold, toast munching through it in a thoroughly dissatisfied manner.
The traffic report ended and Ianto choked in pure horror at the next word out of the speakers.
“And now Britney Spears “Toxic” for you ladies and gentlemen, requested by Alice for her daughter Sally, who is seven today!” the DJ sounded far to enthused by this selection. Ianto thwacked his head off the steering wheel as the opening bars filtered into his car.
Get annoyed by irritating song on the radio. Turn off radio.
Ianto spent the rest of his snailing journey in silence, preferring it to the drivel that got spouted out of his radio every morning. He really needed to get the CD player fixed.
Arrive late for work.
He walked into his office, smiling grimly at his co-worker Neil, who nodded sympathetically as Ianto dumped his coat on the chair by the door that the pair used as a coat rack.
Yawn.
He was so tired. Damned lack of hot coffee. He headed for the coffee machine in the corner, longing for the day when he could afford to buy himself one for his tiny little flat. He hated instant, but had little time for anything else before or after work, unless of course it involved copious amounts of sleep. That he had time for.
Make coffee.
He sighed happily as he took that first sip. Heaven in a cup. He picked up Neil’s and set on the desk as he passed. Neil looked eternally grateful, grabbing his cup in haste. He adored Ianto’s coffee, and waited for a cup every morning. He needed the caffeine. They all did in this job, but Neil couldn’t make coffee worth shit.
Ianto sat down and booted up his computer, drinking more of his coffee, deciding that he was almost glad that he’s forgotten to make the instant shit.
Wake up properly.
This was his only time where he could relax, before his computer was actually online. He couldn’t do much until then, so this was his minute and thirty four seconds to himself.
Check e-mails.
Bugger. Meeting. Damn. It wasn’t even an interesting one. It was the bi-weekly “how can everything that turns up that is alien related be linked back to the Doctor?” meeting. It was stupid, because the same conclusion could be drawn at every turn. They were nowhere nearer to finding him than they had been in 1879 when Torchwood was founded in Scotland. And what was worse was that he turned up all the time. He’d been in 10 Downing Street, and some idiot had let him go. Again. He used to work with UNIT, but some pillock there had cocked up too.
He checked a box in reply, so they didn’t hound him to make sure he attended and sifted through the rest. Most of it was crap. He wasn’t sure that the Spam filters on the e-mail system were up to much, given the sheer volumes of rubbish that came through.
There were a few interoffice jokes that had been in circulation a while now, some old, some new. The new ones Ianto read to Neil, who never seemed to get them, much to his chagrin. Then he spotted an e-mail to do with holidays to the Mediterranean.
Look for holidays on the internet.
He knew he was never likely to get a holiday in his life, but he was allowed to dream of getting one. He might, if he was lucky, get a week off for injury or something, and be damned if he was going to stay at home. He would go on holiday. Even if it was just a trip to Wales to see his Mam and Tad. It would be worth it, just to get away from this city. Just for the day. He wouldn’t mind being a field agent. They got to go places. He stared at the inside of this building day in, day out. He browsed until he had to leave for his meeting, interspacing the loading pages with random bits of work. He was generally efficient, and there didn’t seem to be that much he had to do today. Maybe he could go home early. He could almost bet his life that the moment Yvonne left, anyone who could would be gone within minutes.
Go to meeting.
He sat down and listened to the last four days worth of prattle, knowing all of it was rubbish. He rolled his eyes.
Pretend to be interested.
He glazed his expression in just the right way, so it looked like he was listening intently. He even “made notes” in short hand. Really he was just writing down his plans for that holiday, but he knew no one else in the room could read shorthand anyway, so it really didn’t make all that much difference.
Nod in right places.
He was careful to nod periodically, in understanding, earnest and acceptance, when really he had next to know idea what he was agreeing too.
Daydream.
His list of things to do when he got that holiday was getting longer with every passing minute, meaning that by the time the meeting was over he had contributed very little, gained even less, but had three and a half pages of notes.
Return to desk none the wiser.
When he was asked about the meeting he shrugged. “Same old crap. Don’t really see why I have to go to be honest. It doesn’t get anyone anywhere.”
Make coffee.
He passed Neil his coffee and settled to watch the interoffice messaging window for a bit. There was always something interesting on there, and he could watch it while working, as he still did a lot of stuff by hand and then wrote it up later, just for the ease of doing it. He could make sense of stuff when he could spread it out in front of him, more so than when it was on a screen anyway.
Listen to office gossip.
There seemed to be some sort of hubbub about a girl who did the accounts having been caught in a cupboard about to have sex with one of Yvonne’s secretaries, and it was the big news of the day, because the unfortunate girl in question had been hauled into the Boss’s office for “a little chat”. More likely to be railed at because the Boss’s favourite office boy got seduced. Oopsie. Ianto sniggered.
Go to stationary cupboard for paperclips.
He did need the paper clips, mostly to stop his various bits of paper getting muddled up, something that happened all too often due to the pitiful size of his desk, and the amount of space his computer took up on said desk. The other reason for wanting them was that he could use them to mend the stupid desk temporarily, as a sort of replacement for screws in one of the legs, which apparently it was too much hassle to repair. Ianto was going to bring in a screwdriver and a screw tomorrow, because it was getting stupid.
Avoid person you snogged at the Christmas party.
The girl almost saw him, almost. She was pretty, but stupid, and he couldn’t abide stupid people. He’d been very drunk at the Christmas party, and therefore had not been altogether responsible for his actions. Once he was sure she had gone, he went back to his office to repair his desk, for the third time that day.
Check e-mails. Make interesting sculpture out of paperclips.
It looked sort of like a dog, or possibly a sheep. It was a little difficult to tell. He asked what Neil thought, and the response was far from inspirational.
“It looks like you’re playing with some paperclips Yan.” It was a good natured reprimand, meaning if anyone rats up to Yvonne he’d get his ass whipped, and not in a good way.
Shuffle paper.
He sighed and started sorting through the pile of paperwork, not actually doing anything except organising it and putting all the pages where they should go.
Look busy. Check watch.
Half one. Fantastic. Food. He asked if Neil wanted anything and got the usual shake of the head, which signified that Neil’s wife had made him something.
Go to lunch. Buy same sandwich from same shop. Eat sandwich at desk.
He actually did some work over lunch, finding a case that actually held his interest because it looked genuine. He looked it up, cross referenced it all over the archives and poked around on the internet before sending an e-mail to one of the girls a little higher up (still in the “dungeon” but still higher up) to tell them that he had worked out one of the cases and would send a report by the end of the day.
Make coffee.
He went over to the coffee machine and made some more coffee, praising caffeine and all things it came in.
His computer died half way through the report, but he was able to hit print just before doing so, meaning that he didn’t have to start over. This was the other reason he preferred doing everything by hand. He was less likely to have a meltdown resulting in loss of data. His computer was ancient, and it was beginning to show. Luckily for Ianto, there were tell tale signs before the machine puttered out, like a whining from the tower, and the mouse would stop working.
Repeat office gossip.
He told Neil about the girl from accounts, and Neil whooped. It was interesting, because things like that normally weren’t abnormal. Yvonne normally didn’t notice or if she did, didn’t care, so there was a bit of hype about why this one was so different from all the others.
He finished the report as Neil read out things from the interoffice messaging channel and they sniggered at it. There were some vivid imaginations in Torchwood. It was hilarious.
Bump into Boss in lift.
He left the office, report in hand to take it up stairs. It was a shock to find Yvonne in the same lift. What was she doing here?
Make small talk. Laugh at Boss’ unfunny joke.
That was an experience he never wanted to repeat. That woman was awful on so many levels. He went and handed in the report, taking the stairs on the way back down to avoid any more impromptu meetings with people who never normally came down this far into the building.
Check e-mail.
It was just his luck that the report was finished by hand just as his computer spluttered back to life, and his inbox was full of Spam again. And more damned porn. It wasn’t even good porn. Which was the insulting thing. If someone was going to sign him up for it, couldn’t they do a decent job of it and get the decent stuff? He deleted it all again, grumbling.
Make more coffee.
It was amazing how much of the stuff they went through. Couldn’t be good for the blood pressure, but then again, neither was this job. He wondered how many people had died from high blood pressure in this job. He might have to look it up, just for the sake of his own morbid curiosity.
Flirt with colleague.
Just as he was sitting back down, Lisa came in with one of his reports from the day before, asking about something. He wasn’t sure what, because he was too busy staring at her and wondering if he could come up with something clever to say that would make her smile. His vague attempts to seemed to make her smile, which was helpful.
She left the report on his desk and left, throwing him a wink as she did so, earning a wolf whistle from Neil.
Ask colleague out via e-mail.
It was a stupid idea really, but there was nothing for it. He wasn’t going up there. It was just a no.
Get no reply.
Hardly encouraging. Neil was trying to give him tips, but it wasn’t helping. They sounded like even worse ideas than the one’s he’d come up with on his own.
Sign leaving card for someone you don’t know.
This in itself was an interesting event. Normally people who left got Retconned, and everyone knew it, so leaving cards were kind of null and void, and a waste of time, because the receiver wouldn’t get it, or have any idea who it was from. When he checked this with Neil, he was told that the person was transferring to Torchwood Two in Glasgow. That explained everything. He signed the card, giving it back to Neil.
Shuffle more papers.
He browsed the file Lisa had given him, trying to remember what she had said was the matter with it, finding a note from her on the page in question, which was immensely helpful. How would he had worked it out without her?
Check e-mails. Still no reply from colleague.
It was silly of him really. Most people only looked at their e-mail once in the morning and once just after lunch, so it wasn’t really something that he was likely to get a reply to today. He wished Lisa was one of those people who did check their e-mail every hour or so, but she wasn’t.
Check watch.
So much time, so little to do.
Walk around with a piece of paper looking busy.
This was the “I’m Bored” signal. Neil knew it well and started throwing bits of scrap paper at him, trying to get him to stop it, even though he knew it would do nothing but make a mess that Ianto would clean up. But it would stop him being bored though, so in a sort of demented way, it was an effective solution to the problem, until he got bored again and Neil ran out of scrap paper.
Check e-mail.
Still nothing.
Check to see if Boss has left work.
He had a look on the interoffice messaging channel. There was a relay system. One of the secretaries would give a codeword in three consecutive sentences, which told anyone who was watching that Yvonne had left the building and that in a few minutes, the rest of them could pack up and go. It was quite late for Yvonne. Eight thirty. Normally she was gone by six at the latest. Maybe the jaunt down to the “dungeon” had made her run late. Who cared? He could go home! He poured some coffee into his travel mug and waved to Neil as he grabbed his coat.
Leave work. Get stuck in traffic.
He couldn’t believe the traffic at this time of night. Only in London. He’d never known anywhere else like it.
Get home. Make dinner. Watch rubbish T.V.
There was nothing on. There never was. Some soaps, which Ianto scoffed at and a few documentaries, but nothing that could hold his interest once he’d finished eating.
Yawn. Go to bed.
Sleep. Sleep was good
Repeat until weekend.
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Or that’s now it should have been. Only it wasn’t, because the very next day, there was a big disturbance in the Torchwood Tower. By the name of Captain Jack Harkness. He was Yvonne’s equal from Torchwood Three in Cardiff, and the havoc he reeked every time he entered Torchwood London was phenomenal, purely because of the fights he’s get into with Yvonne. He argued with her on every turn. Literally every single one. There was nothing they could agree on except their hatred for each other.
Ianto had only glimpsed him once, at a distance as he stormed through a door when Ianto was coming in from lunch, and he had been stunned. Jack Harkness was an enigma of a man, with a big billowing coat and a very self-assured stance and stride. Not to mention he was gorgeous. Ianto wasn’t normally that way inclined, but there was a distinct feeling that for this man, Ianto could make an exception.
He was rumoured to be a complete sex fiend. Half the women (and half the men too now he thought about it) had storied which surfaced whenever the Captain appeared of the flirtation and the innuendo which dripped from the Captain’s every word.
Ianto was not so lucky normally, as he was so deep underground, but today, was his lucky day. The Captain wanted something from the archives and Yvonne wouldn’t give it to him, so he was going to just go and get it himself, with the help of some rebellious member of staff.
Ianto, it seemed, was his choice.
“Hi there. Captain Jack Harkness. I need a hand finding something in the archives. I was told I could find a willing volunteer here. Any takers?”
Ianto’s jaw dropped. That smile! He was just gobsmackingly gorgeous, even more so up close. And he smelled good too. Really good. Nice aftershave.
It was surreal. How could this man be standing here? He stood, motioning for Captain Harkness to follow him.
“What was it you were looking for sir?”
“Ooh! You’re not local! A Welshman. Love that accent. Very nice. And I was looking for a sonic binary coded rift predictor, but can I take you home instead?”
There was a leer, and the man was too close. His hands brushed Ianto’s sides from behind, and he nearly jumped. He led the way to the correct part of the archives, unsure of what the correct answer to that question was.
He handed the Captain the equipment he’d come for.
“You,” he said, leaning close to Ianto, cupping his hand along Ianto’s jaw, “have just saved me a heck of a lot of bother. Thank you.” He brushed his thumb over Ianto’s bottom lip, tipped him a wink, then turned, walking away.
Ianto slid down the shelving unit. That was…different. A day to remember, rather than another of the same he wanted to forget.
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I wrote this when I was really just kinda dead. I got four hours sleep, due to being unable to get back to sleep when my sister coughed her guts up at half three this morning. May go back to bed now. Not sure I like some of it, but never mind. It’s as good as its ever going to get.
Summary: Ianto’s daily schedule changes.
A/N: The italicised bit it almost identical to an Army advert I saw on the bus a few months ago, which made me giggle. I wrote it down (having nothing better to do on the bus) and I found it while clearing out my room last week (its amazing what turns up when you throw the crap out). Thought I would make a fic out of it. So credit to the promotional team at the British Army for that!
pairing: Jack and Ianto at the end. the VERY end. because it was the only way i could make it all fit in the way i wanted it to. sort of anyway...
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Alarm goes off. Press snooze.
Of all the things Ianto Jones disliked in the universe, there was only one thing he truly loathed with every fibre of his being. The infuriatingly irritating noise his alarm made at 0630 every morning of every morning of every week. Which wanker was it that got paid to decide that your morning wake up call should sound akin to a heart monitor attatched to a mega phone? Who ever it was should be shot. As should the tosser who paid him for the idea. Repeatedly. He started to dose off again.
Alarm goes off again. Wake up.
He bashed the off button on top of the clock, cursing his lack of decent sleep. He hadn’t had a single day off since he joined Torchwood London a year before. No rest for the wicked. Work started too early and finished too late. Torchwood wasn’t a nine to five job. Unless, of course, your name was Yvonne Hartman. Then you could turn up and fuck off as and when you pleased. Ianto’s was a start at 0730 and finish at 2200. And those were the good days.
Get up. Go to the loo. Get washed. Get dressed.
As he pulled on his immaculately pressed suit, Ianto considered what about his job he actually enjoyed. Being Junior Researcher down the “dungeon” (meaning basement) of the Torchwood Tower was hardly the most fun filled job in the world, and came with few perks. There were two. One was that he got to drink decent coffee due to the fantastic coffee machine, and the other was the fact that he got to tinker with stuff that most people could only dream of. Aliens. Time shifts. Artefacts from places beyond human comprehension. Amazing things.
Rush breakfast.
He grabbed a piece of toast and stuck it in his mouth as he grabbed his travel mug off the side and ran for the front door.
Check for keys, wallet, mobile. Leave house. Start car. Turn on radio.
Ianto swung out of his driveway, his mouth still full of toast, the rest of the slice on the dashboard. He turned out of his street and headed towards the motorway.
Get stuck in traffic.
Seven in the morning, and the traffic was at a standstill. What he wouldn’t give for Welsh country roads. He turned off his engine. No point in wasting petrol, he mused as the traffic report came in.
“Traffic is at a standstill on the M25 in both directions, with big tail backs on either side from junction 10, still not sure what’s causing the problems there but try and avoid it if you can.” The overly chipper voice of the girl reading the report did nothing for Ianto’s mood. It never did.
“Oh yeah. Great. Thanks for telling me that now,” he grumbled, reaching for his coffee. “Oh bollocks!”
He’d forgotten to put the water in. He stared at the now useless instant granules menacingly for a moment before sticking the cup back in it’s holder and picking up his remaining, and now cold, toast munching through it in a thoroughly dissatisfied manner.
The traffic report ended and Ianto choked in pure horror at the next word out of the speakers.
“And now Britney Spears “Toxic” for you ladies and gentlemen, requested by Alice for her daughter Sally, who is seven today!” the DJ sounded far to enthused by this selection. Ianto thwacked his head off the steering wheel as the opening bars filtered into his car.
Get annoyed by irritating song on the radio. Turn off radio.
Ianto spent the rest of his snailing journey in silence, preferring it to the drivel that got spouted out of his radio every morning. He really needed to get the CD player fixed.
Arrive late for work.
He walked into his office, smiling grimly at his co-worker Neil, who nodded sympathetically as Ianto dumped his coat on the chair by the door that the pair used as a coat rack.
Yawn.
He was so tired. Damned lack of hot coffee. He headed for the coffee machine in the corner, longing for the day when he could afford to buy himself one for his tiny little flat. He hated instant, but had little time for anything else before or after work, unless of course it involved copious amounts of sleep. That he had time for.
Make coffee.
He sighed happily as he took that first sip. Heaven in a cup. He picked up Neil’s and set on the desk as he passed. Neil looked eternally grateful, grabbing his cup in haste. He adored Ianto’s coffee, and waited for a cup every morning. He needed the caffeine. They all did in this job, but Neil couldn’t make coffee worth shit.
Ianto sat down and booted up his computer, drinking more of his coffee, deciding that he was almost glad that he’s forgotten to make the instant shit.
Wake up properly.
This was his only time where he could relax, before his computer was actually online. He couldn’t do much until then, so this was his minute and thirty four seconds to himself.
Check e-mails.
Bugger. Meeting. Damn. It wasn’t even an interesting one. It was the bi-weekly “how can everything that turns up that is alien related be linked back to the Doctor?” meeting. It was stupid, because the same conclusion could be drawn at every turn. They were nowhere nearer to finding him than they had been in 1879 when Torchwood was founded in Scotland. And what was worse was that he turned up all the time. He’d been in 10 Downing Street, and some idiot had let him go. Again. He used to work with UNIT, but some pillock there had cocked up too.
He checked a box in reply, so they didn’t hound him to make sure he attended and sifted through the rest. Most of it was crap. He wasn’t sure that the Spam filters on the e-mail system were up to much, given the sheer volumes of rubbish that came through.
There were a few interoffice jokes that had been in circulation a while now, some old, some new. The new ones Ianto read to Neil, who never seemed to get them, much to his chagrin. Then he spotted an e-mail to do with holidays to the Mediterranean.
Look for holidays on the internet.
He knew he was never likely to get a holiday in his life, but he was allowed to dream of getting one. He might, if he was lucky, get a week off for injury or something, and be damned if he was going to stay at home. He would go on holiday. Even if it was just a trip to Wales to see his Mam and Tad. It would be worth it, just to get away from this city. Just for the day. He wouldn’t mind being a field agent. They got to go places. He stared at the inside of this building day in, day out. He browsed until he had to leave for his meeting, interspacing the loading pages with random bits of work. He was generally efficient, and there didn’t seem to be that much he had to do today. Maybe he could go home early. He could almost bet his life that the moment Yvonne left, anyone who could would be gone within minutes.
Go to meeting.
He sat down and listened to the last four days worth of prattle, knowing all of it was rubbish. He rolled his eyes.
Pretend to be interested.
He glazed his expression in just the right way, so it looked like he was listening intently. He even “made notes” in short hand. Really he was just writing down his plans for that holiday, but he knew no one else in the room could read shorthand anyway, so it really didn’t make all that much difference.
Nod in right places.
He was careful to nod periodically, in understanding, earnest and acceptance, when really he had next to know idea what he was agreeing too.
Daydream.
His list of things to do when he got that holiday was getting longer with every passing minute, meaning that by the time the meeting was over he had contributed very little, gained even less, but had three and a half pages of notes.
Return to desk none the wiser.
When he was asked about the meeting he shrugged. “Same old crap. Don’t really see why I have to go to be honest. It doesn’t get anyone anywhere.”
Make coffee.
He passed Neil his coffee and settled to watch the interoffice messaging window for a bit. There was always something interesting on there, and he could watch it while working, as he still did a lot of stuff by hand and then wrote it up later, just for the ease of doing it. He could make sense of stuff when he could spread it out in front of him, more so than when it was on a screen anyway.
Listen to office gossip.
There seemed to be some sort of hubbub about a girl who did the accounts having been caught in a cupboard about to have sex with one of Yvonne’s secretaries, and it was the big news of the day, because the unfortunate girl in question had been hauled into the Boss’s office for “a little chat”. More likely to be railed at because the Boss’s favourite office boy got seduced. Oopsie. Ianto sniggered.
Go to stationary cupboard for paperclips.
He did need the paper clips, mostly to stop his various bits of paper getting muddled up, something that happened all too often due to the pitiful size of his desk, and the amount of space his computer took up on said desk. The other reason for wanting them was that he could use them to mend the stupid desk temporarily, as a sort of replacement for screws in one of the legs, which apparently it was too much hassle to repair. Ianto was going to bring in a screwdriver and a screw tomorrow, because it was getting stupid.
Avoid person you snogged at the Christmas party.
The girl almost saw him, almost. She was pretty, but stupid, and he couldn’t abide stupid people. He’d been very drunk at the Christmas party, and therefore had not been altogether responsible for his actions. Once he was sure she had gone, he went back to his office to repair his desk, for the third time that day.
Check e-mails. Make interesting sculpture out of paperclips.
It looked sort of like a dog, or possibly a sheep. It was a little difficult to tell. He asked what Neil thought, and the response was far from inspirational.
“It looks like you’re playing with some paperclips Yan.” It was a good natured reprimand, meaning if anyone rats up to Yvonne he’d get his ass whipped, and not in a good way.
Shuffle paper.
He sighed and started sorting through the pile of paperwork, not actually doing anything except organising it and putting all the pages where they should go.
Look busy. Check watch.
Half one. Fantastic. Food. He asked if Neil wanted anything and got the usual shake of the head, which signified that Neil’s wife had made him something.
Go to lunch. Buy same sandwich from same shop. Eat sandwich at desk.
He actually did some work over lunch, finding a case that actually held his interest because it looked genuine. He looked it up, cross referenced it all over the archives and poked around on the internet before sending an e-mail to one of the girls a little higher up (still in the “dungeon” but still higher up) to tell them that he had worked out one of the cases and would send a report by the end of the day.
Make coffee.
He went over to the coffee machine and made some more coffee, praising caffeine and all things it came in.
His computer died half way through the report, but he was able to hit print just before doing so, meaning that he didn’t have to start over. This was the other reason he preferred doing everything by hand. He was less likely to have a meltdown resulting in loss of data. His computer was ancient, and it was beginning to show. Luckily for Ianto, there were tell tale signs before the machine puttered out, like a whining from the tower, and the mouse would stop working.
Repeat office gossip.
He told Neil about the girl from accounts, and Neil whooped. It was interesting, because things like that normally weren’t abnormal. Yvonne normally didn’t notice or if she did, didn’t care, so there was a bit of hype about why this one was so different from all the others.
He finished the report as Neil read out things from the interoffice messaging channel and they sniggered at it. There were some vivid imaginations in Torchwood. It was hilarious.
Bump into Boss in lift.
He left the office, report in hand to take it up stairs. It was a shock to find Yvonne in the same lift. What was she doing here?
Make small talk. Laugh at Boss’ unfunny joke.
That was an experience he never wanted to repeat. That woman was awful on so many levels. He went and handed in the report, taking the stairs on the way back down to avoid any more impromptu meetings with people who never normally came down this far into the building.
Check e-mail.
It was just his luck that the report was finished by hand just as his computer spluttered back to life, and his inbox was full of Spam again. And more damned porn. It wasn’t even good porn. Which was the insulting thing. If someone was going to sign him up for it, couldn’t they do a decent job of it and get the decent stuff? He deleted it all again, grumbling.
Make more coffee.
It was amazing how much of the stuff they went through. Couldn’t be good for the blood pressure, but then again, neither was this job. He wondered how many people had died from high blood pressure in this job. He might have to look it up, just for the sake of his own morbid curiosity.
Flirt with colleague.
Just as he was sitting back down, Lisa came in with one of his reports from the day before, asking about something. He wasn’t sure what, because he was too busy staring at her and wondering if he could come up with something clever to say that would make her smile. His vague attempts to seemed to make her smile, which was helpful.
She left the report on his desk and left, throwing him a wink as she did so, earning a wolf whistle from Neil.
Ask colleague out via e-mail.
It was a stupid idea really, but there was nothing for it. He wasn’t going up there. It was just a no.
Get no reply.
Hardly encouraging. Neil was trying to give him tips, but it wasn’t helping. They sounded like even worse ideas than the one’s he’d come up with on his own.
Sign leaving card for someone you don’t know.
This in itself was an interesting event. Normally people who left got Retconned, and everyone knew it, so leaving cards were kind of null and void, and a waste of time, because the receiver wouldn’t get it, or have any idea who it was from. When he checked this with Neil, he was told that the person was transferring to Torchwood Two in Glasgow. That explained everything. He signed the card, giving it back to Neil.
Shuffle more papers.
He browsed the file Lisa had given him, trying to remember what she had said was the matter with it, finding a note from her on the page in question, which was immensely helpful. How would he had worked it out without her?
Check e-mails. Still no reply from colleague.
It was silly of him really. Most people only looked at their e-mail once in the morning and once just after lunch, so it wasn’t really something that he was likely to get a reply to today. He wished Lisa was one of those people who did check their e-mail every hour or so, but she wasn’t.
Check watch.
So much time, so little to do.
Walk around with a piece of paper looking busy.
This was the “I’m Bored” signal. Neil knew it well and started throwing bits of scrap paper at him, trying to get him to stop it, even though he knew it would do nothing but make a mess that Ianto would clean up. But it would stop him being bored though, so in a sort of demented way, it was an effective solution to the problem, until he got bored again and Neil ran out of scrap paper.
Check e-mail.
Still nothing.
Check to see if Boss has left work.
He had a look on the interoffice messaging channel. There was a relay system. One of the secretaries would give a codeword in three consecutive sentences, which told anyone who was watching that Yvonne had left the building and that in a few minutes, the rest of them could pack up and go. It was quite late for Yvonne. Eight thirty. Normally she was gone by six at the latest. Maybe the jaunt down to the “dungeon” had made her run late. Who cared? He could go home! He poured some coffee into his travel mug and waved to Neil as he grabbed his coat.
Leave work. Get stuck in traffic.
He couldn’t believe the traffic at this time of night. Only in London. He’d never known anywhere else like it.
Get home. Make dinner. Watch rubbish T.V.
There was nothing on. There never was. Some soaps, which Ianto scoffed at and a few documentaries, but nothing that could hold his interest once he’d finished eating.
Yawn. Go to bed.
Sleep. Sleep was good
Repeat until weekend.
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Or that’s now it should have been. Only it wasn’t, because the very next day, there was a big disturbance in the Torchwood Tower. By the name of Captain Jack Harkness. He was Yvonne’s equal from Torchwood Three in Cardiff, and the havoc he reeked every time he entered Torchwood London was phenomenal, purely because of the fights he’s get into with Yvonne. He argued with her on every turn. Literally every single one. There was nothing they could agree on except their hatred for each other.
Ianto had only glimpsed him once, at a distance as he stormed through a door when Ianto was coming in from lunch, and he had been stunned. Jack Harkness was an enigma of a man, with a big billowing coat and a very self-assured stance and stride. Not to mention he was gorgeous. Ianto wasn’t normally that way inclined, but there was a distinct feeling that for this man, Ianto could make an exception.
He was rumoured to be a complete sex fiend. Half the women (and half the men too now he thought about it) had storied which surfaced whenever the Captain appeared of the flirtation and the innuendo which dripped from the Captain’s every word.
Ianto was not so lucky normally, as he was so deep underground, but today, was his lucky day. The Captain wanted something from the archives and Yvonne wouldn’t give it to him, so he was going to just go and get it himself, with the help of some rebellious member of staff.
Ianto, it seemed, was his choice.
“Hi there. Captain Jack Harkness. I need a hand finding something in the archives. I was told I could find a willing volunteer here. Any takers?”
Ianto’s jaw dropped. That smile! He was just gobsmackingly gorgeous, even more so up close. And he smelled good too. Really good. Nice aftershave.
It was surreal. How could this man be standing here? He stood, motioning for Captain Harkness to follow him.
“What was it you were looking for sir?”
“Ooh! You’re not local! A Welshman. Love that accent. Very nice. And I was looking for a sonic binary coded rift predictor, but can I take you home instead?”
There was a leer, and the man was too close. His hands brushed Ianto’s sides from behind, and he nearly jumped. He led the way to the correct part of the archives, unsure of what the correct answer to that question was.
He handed the Captain the equipment he’d come for.
“You,” he said, leaning close to Ianto, cupping his hand along Ianto’s jaw, “have just saved me a heck of a lot of bother. Thank you.” He brushed his thumb over Ianto’s bottom lip, tipped him a wink, then turned, walking away.
Ianto slid down the shelving unit. That was…different. A day to remember, rather than another of the same he wanted to forget.
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I wrote this when I was really just kinda dead. I got four hours sleep, due to being unable to get back to sleep when my sister coughed her guts up at half three this morning. May go back to bed now. Not sure I like some of it, but never mind. It’s as good as its ever going to get.