[RP] I know who you are, I know who you are; we can keep a secret, I know where you come from…
{{OOC: Backdated to the morning after Ianto's retrieval by Leona.}}
It's not egregiously early when a knock sounds at Ianto's door. Rather, it's an eminently respectable time in the morning - right when one might expect suits-and-collars to be getting up, early enough to pre-empt breakfast but not early enough to presume. It is, hopefully, right about when Ianto should be woken up and just ready. (He may have found a clean and very nicely-tailored suit waiting for him; Leona is good at seeing to little things like that.)
Having an empath at the door helps with timing that.
Winter is not entirely sure what to think. He did see Captain Harkness' entry informing friends of Torchwood personnel who had disappeared, and had accepted Ianto as one more acquaintance lost to the vagaries of Chicago and the Rift. And now, this.
Bloodlust, Ms. Sandric had mentioned when she assigned him here. Bloodlust was an unfamiliar concept, in Winter's estimation of Ianto. Desperation, certainly; a willingness to cross a number of lines if he was pushed to it, the seeds of a despair with the potential to cross into fatalism, but bloodlust? And yet, Ms. Sandric is a rakshasa. One would expect her to know what she felt, and one would certainly expect her to be familiar enough to tell her own Calling from a feeling imposed from the outside.
Ianto Jones, the bloodthirsty empath. It's a novel concept.
And so here he is, ready to escort him off for coffee and pastries, or whatever the restaurant downstairs offers up as breakfast options. One well-dressed albino demon, soft-spoken and demure, with absolutely nothing about his manner to suggest that he's a whore rather than a young professional. (Not that young, in all honesty, but he and most demons age quite well.) Care to come meet him, Ianto?
It's not egregiously early when a knock sounds at Ianto's door. Rather, it's an eminently respectable time in the morning - right when one might expect suits-and-collars to be getting up, early enough to pre-empt breakfast but not early enough to presume. It is, hopefully, right about when Ianto should be woken up and just ready. (He may have found a clean and very nicely-tailored suit waiting for him; Leona is good at seeing to little things like that.)
Having an empath at the door helps with timing that.
Winter is not entirely sure what to think. He did see Captain Harkness' entry informing friends of Torchwood personnel who had disappeared, and had accepted Ianto as one more acquaintance lost to the vagaries of Chicago and the Rift. And now, this.
Bloodlust, Ms. Sandric had mentioned when she assigned him here. Bloodlust was an unfamiliar concept, in Winter's estimation of Ianto. Desperation, certainly; a willingness to cross a number of lines if he was pushed to it, the seeds of a despair with the potential to cross into fatalism, but bloodlust? And yet, Ms. Sandric is a rakshasa. One would expect her to know what she felt, and one would certainly expect her to be familiar enough to tell her own Calling from a feeling imposed from the outside.
Ianto Jones, the bloodthirsty empath. It's a novel concept.
And so here he is, ready to escort him off for coffee and pastries, or whatever the restaurant downstairs offers up as breakfast options. One well-dressed albino demon, soft-spoken and demure, with absolutely nothing about his manner to suggest that he's a whore rather than a young professional. (Not that young, in all honesty, but he and most demons age quite well.) Care to come meet him, Ianto?