[Fic] The Curves of Your Lips (Rewrite History)
I'm supposed to be reading Beowulf (again), so of course I'm going to procrastinate for as long as I can. This time, my procrastination came in the form of writing. So here's part one...
The Curves of your Lips (Rewrite History)
Author: Jazie
Length: 9,800 words
Pairings: Jack/Ianto
Rating: PG13
Spoilers: This takes place after Exit Wounds, so everything up through then.
Summary: Ianto Jones found it somewhat amusing that even in an archive full of alien artifacts, he still managed to unearth something that surprised him.
Author’s Notes: This is the result of one of my friends demanding a Torchwood fic that included some sort of literary references. To my surprise, it took on a life of its own. It’s unbeta-ed, so all mistakes are my own damn fault. Thanks for reading, and hope you enjoy my first venture in this fandom.
***
Ianto Jones found it somewhat amusing that even in an archive full of alien artifacts, he still managed to unearth something that surprised him. After all, nothing should’ve been able to surprise him anymore.
He’d been doing inventory. It was a tedious task that required a lot of checking and rechecking, so it made sense that most of Torchwood Three’s employees would have avoided it all costs. They thrived in states of chaos and clutter, reveling in the thrills and avoiding the drudgery. Or at least they once had, Ianto thought. When two of their number were killed so suddenly, something of the thrill had gone. He’d seen it in Gwen’s eyes when they’d gone weevil hunting a few days afterwards. The clean-up operation after Gray’s attack had been enormous, and there had been little time for grieving. Weevils kept popping up in unfortunate locations and despite the help UNIT provided, the remnants of Torchwood worked round the clock to keep things under control. When they’d worked, Ianto had observed the change in both Gwen and Jack. There was no playful gleam, no triumphant grin as the aliens were shepherded back into their underground home. They took no joy or pride in their work. It was simply that-work.
They each dealt with the loss in different ways. Ianto watched as Gwen struggled to understand, tried to comprehend how one human being could have caused so much pain. He saw her try to talk with Jack a few times, but she gave up, unsatisfied by his silence. She probably talked to Rhys, who she’d spent much more time with lately. She needed someone to mull things over with, to hold her and reassure her. Ianto offered her an ear to speak to when they were caught up at work, when she couldn’t see her sympathetic husband. He never said anything, but let the words spill from her mouth-sometimes confused, sometimes angry, sometimes helpless. Ianto knew he was a far cry from a psychologist, but he hoped his presence helped.
Jack had retreated into work and rooftop brooding, of course. If Gwen needed to talk about things, Jack needed silence just as much. He never spoke. But in the silence, Ianto heard everything. He saw it in the way Jack ran his fingers over a picture of Tosh. Heard it in the uncomfortable moments when someone forgot and mentioned Owen casually. Felt it when Jack held him tightly, almost desperately, when they spent the night together.
And Ianto… Ianto dealt with the loss by reorganizing the archives.
The monotony felt comforting. After weeks of almost nonstop chaos, it was soothing to be in control again. There was no crisis, for the moment, so he dug out the inventory list and began to update it. The archives had never exactly been structured. Things were always being borrowed, studied, and put back under the wrong label. Or not put back at all. He’d found some sort of device Tosh had sworn was an alien chew-toy underneath Jack’s desk, an ultra-light scanner in the infirmary, and a small piece of broken machinery in the pterodactyl nest. Ianto applied himself to the task with his usual dedication, reviewing the inventory list and going through the archives alphabetically. If he worked on it every day for a few hours, he estimated he’d be done in about a year or so.
Oh, well. It wasn’t really about getting the work done, Ianto acknowledged to himself. More like losing himself in the work as it got done. If he spent a few hours trying to figure out where things went, if they had lost something and if so, how, than those would be a few hours he wasn’t thinking about anything else.
He’d been at it for about three hours when he found something unexpected. Or more unexpected than most of what he found. Sitting underneath an ornate sword was a book. He gently lifted the weapon, careful of its many blades, and withdrew the volume. It took a second to wipe away the dust and recognize the title.
The Picture of Dorian Gray.
He blinked. He had never considered himself to be a literary expert, but he was pretty sure that Oscar Wilde had not been of alien origin. Had someone left it here by mistake? He flipped it open, looking to see if anyone had perhaps scrawled a name or other mark of ownership in it. Nothing… except a slip of paper tucked away somewhere in the middle of the book.
The paper looked old. Its edge, the one not protected inside the book, was yellow, withered and torn. He pulled it out. It was some sort of handwritten letter.
I’m sorry. I know by the time you find this note, I will probably be dead. I just want you to know that I love you. So much so that I could not allow you to put yourself in danger. DO NOT BLAME YOURSELF. These years working at Torchwood have been among the best I’ve ever known. Most people spend their lives just existing, not really aware of the world. I can die knowing that I have lived every one of these years. As far as final requests, say goodbye to the twins for-
If there had been a signature, Ianto couldn’t tell. The end had been part of the paper to wither and fade away, lost to time. But Ianto found himself staring at the note, surprised when it began to swim before his eyes. He quickly rubbed a sleeve over his face, squeezing the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. Torchwood was a dangerous place to work. He knew that better than anyone. No one he’d been acquainted with had ever made it to retirement. Yet somehow it still surprised him to find proof that previous generations of Torchwood had died for one another. And left death notes in classical books.
The words repeated themselves in his mind, sending painful twinges through him. They were far too familiar, hitting close to home. But the obvious age of the paper meant that neither Owen nor Tosh could have left this. And even if time hadn’t been an issue, the style wasn’t either of theirs. Tosh had used her tech savvy nature to record her last farewells, and in true Owen fashion, the doctor hadn’t thought that far ahead. Or if he had, he’d chosen to ignore the dangers and stride into the future without a backward glance.
He folded the note in half, the way it had been, and slipped it back into the book. But to his surprise, he found himself placing it on a shelf near the exit, where he could retrieve it when he left. Some part of him didn’t want to let go of it just yet.
Releasing a long breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, Ianto let himself feel the overwhelming sadness for a moment. Just a moment, then he’d be all right. When his time was up, he turned back to the archives. If he hurried, maybe he could finish the ‘a’ section before the week was up.
***
Ianto shoved his key into the door and pushed it open. His flat was cold and the air tasted dusty and stale on his lips, but even so Ianto felt his shoulders slump in relief as he walked inside and shut the door behind him.
His exhaustion and worry worked against each other. He felt tired, but jumpy at the same time. Ianto wearily went to his bedroom. His suit was a dark, muddy brown where it had previously been a navy blue. He resisted the urge to groan-the nice girl that worked at the drycleaners was going to give him that look again. The “what the hell do you expect me to do with this?” look that he seemed to be on the receiving end of more often these days. He couldn’t explain why he brought them clothes stained with blood, dirt and sometimes a few unidentifiable substances (after all, what would they have thought of weevil hunting), but he could tip them very well. That kept the looks from evolving into full blown complaints.
This particular weevil had led him on a merry chase, through an old car lot and into a muddy alley. Ianto had his weevil spray at the ready, but his gun remained tucked securely away. The weevil hadn’t killed anyone, but had been driven out of its sewer home by a construction crew. It had been spooking the locals when Jack got the call and Ianto volunteered to shepherd it back out of the public eye. But still, the chase had been exhausting and Ianto ended up being pushed into a well-tended garden at one point. Eventually the weevil had found its way back into an open drain. Ianto stayed for a few minutes to make sure it wasn’t going to reemerge, and then made his way back to his flat. He looked as if he’d been rolling in the dirt. And although he could handle Jack’s lewd comments about how he looked good dirty, Ianto hated the feeling of something oozing around in his shoes. A change was definitely in order.
As he peeled off his wet shirt, his phone beeped, indicating he’d just received a text. He didn’t even need to look at the name or number to know who it was.
Where r u? How’d it go?
Ianto picked up his phone and quickly replied.
Weevil taken care of. At home, changing my clothes. I’ll be back soon.
Ianto used the minute before Jack replied to change out of his ruined clothes. When his phone trilled, he was about to step into the shower. But he dutifully picked it up and checked the message first.
Take the rest of the evening off.
Ianto stared at the message, and then quickly pressed the first number on his speed dial.
“Hey,” Jack said. He never said ‘hello,’ upon answering, but instead launched right into a conversation. “I know what you’re going to say, and don’t even bother. I think you got the last of the weevils tonight. The rift’s been quiet. You don’t need to be at work right now.”
Ianto glanced around his flat, at the stark stillness of the rooms, the dust gathering on every flat surface and the obvious lack of things to do. It didn’t matter if he was tired, if his bones ached, he needed to do something.
“Jack-”
“Stay home. Order takeout. Watch a movie, read a book, just do something that doesn’t involve work.” Jack’s tone softened. “The city will last one night without you watching over it. You need a break. You’ve been going for weeks.”
There was no arguing with the captain-Ianto could sense the finality in those last words. He was stuck here for the night. He let out a sigh, defeated. “Are you planning on working all night?” What he meant was, will I see you tonight?
Jack knew him well. “I might take a break, if someone offered me a place to go.”
“I’m offering.”
“I’m accepting. I’ll see you later.”
Smiling, Ianto put the phone down on the counter and stepped into the shower.
***
Clean and dressed in sweats, Ianto sunk into his couch. He felt refreshed, but still troubled by his inability to relax. His mind kept returning to the Hub, reviewing the reports he had yet to finish, wondering if he’d cut the power to the coffee machine, and where he had put the inventory list. Frustrated, he rummaged through his shoulder bag, hoping maybe he’d find something work-related he could delve into. The only thing he came up with was an old book. He blinked. It was the one he’d found in the archives a few days ago-The Picture of Dorian Gray, with that letter inside.
He opened it, running his index finger down the book’s spine. The letter he carefully removed and placed back inside the bag, but he kept the book open. The first few words caught his eye and he found himself drawn into nineteenth century London. It was surprisingly easy to lose himself in the characters, in their discussions of society and art.
He only realized he’d fallen asleep when he heard the floorboards creak. Ianto sat up and a blanket that hadn’t been there before fell away from his chest. Blinking quickly, trying to bring the world into focus, he glanced up. Jack was frozen mid-step, a book in his hands. He looked as if he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. He dropped the book onto the glass coffee table. Ianto swung his legs over the side of the couch so Jack had somewhere to sit. “What time is it?” he asked. “How’d you get in?”
“Late.” Jack sat next to him. “I used the spare key. Sorry, I forgot about that part of the floor. Ever thought of talking to your landlord about it?”
“You should have woken me. We could have got food or something.” Ianto rubbed the sleep away from his eyes.
There was something mischievous in Jack’s grin. “And miss the chance to watch you sleep?”
“That’s… kind of creepy.”
“You drooled, by the way.”
Ianto’s hand came up, automatically wiping at his mouth. “And you’ve been watching me for how long?”
Jack shrugged. “Just a little while. I was distracted by your choice of reading material.”
Ianto reached out and picked up the book. “Are you a Wilde fan?”
“I’ve never actually read him before. Scandalous, I know. A man of my intellect not reading such a classic.” The edges of Jack’s mouth curved upward, but there was something other than humor in that smile. “But this book never really interested me.”
Ianto lowered his gaze to his own hands, sensing that if he continued to look into Jack’s eyes, he might not receive a truthful answer. “Any particular reason?”
Jack didn’t reply right away. Instead, he reached out and traced the edge of Ianto’s hand, the one that held the book. “A man destroyed by immortality?” Jack murmured. “Killing those closest to him through his own selfish choices? Somehow I never found that plot very appealing.”
Ah. Ianto looked up, waiting to catch Jack’s eye before speaking. “It wasn’t his fault, you know. The main character ended up being corrupted by society’s obsession with physical beauty.”
Jack tilted his head, as if to get a better look at Ianto. “I take it you’ve read this before.”
“An old girlfriend,” Ianto said, and he could feel a flush creeping along his neck. “Not Lisa, but before her. Her favorite class was literature.”
Jack leaned back, gesturing at the book. “Read to me?”
Ianto raised one eyebrow in question.
Jack spoke much more quietly. “I like listening to your voice. Come on.” He flashed a patented Jack Harkness grin. “Please?”
With a roll of his eyes, Ianto flipped the book open and acquiesced. It took only a few seconds to find the place where he’d left off.
“‘Well, after I had been in the room about ten minutes,’” he read, “‘talking to huge over-dressed dowagers and tedious academicians, I suddenly became conscious that someone was looking at me. I turned half-way round and saw Dorian Gray for the first time. When our eyes met, I felt that I was growing pale. A curious sensation of terror came over me. I knew that I had come face to face with someone whose mere personality was so fascinating that, if I allowed it to do so, it would absorb my whole nature, my whole soul, my very art itself. I did not want any external influence in my life. You know yourself, Harry, how independent I am by nature. I have always been my own master; had at least always been so, till I met Dorian Gray.’”
Ianto paused for breath, but also for thought. The words managed to worm their way into his memories, drawing out certain images and sensations. Another first meeting. Arms outstretched, ready to catch the man plummeting towards him. Cement digging into his back and a heavy weight on his chest. An inhuman shriek as the pterodactyl came plummeting toward them and a sudden twist and shift of position. Then the cold air was replaced by hot breath, and the sudden closeness of the man beneath him. He had scrambled to his feet, feeling something akin to panic. Because he knew, just knew, he could lose himself in the feel of that kind of closeness.
The silence drew Jack’s attention. If he could guess as to what Ianto was thinking about, he didn’t say. Instead he leaned forward, fingertips ghosting over Ianto’s jaw, and brushed the lightest of kisses against his mouth. “You should go back to sleep,” Jack whispered. “You need rest.”
Ianto responded by pressing harder, deepening the kiss. He could still lose himself in Jack, but the prospect no longer terrified him. He pulled back a little, to speak. “I need something else more, sir,” he said, putting a little emphasis on the last word. He could feel Jack’s lips twitch into a smile.
“I could never deny an employee anything.” Jack’s clever fingers slipped underneath Ianto’s shirt, gliding downward. He shivered, but all he felt was heat.
The book slipped off the couch, forgotten.
***
"A blush is very becoming, Duchess," remarked Lord Henry.
"Only when one is young," she answered. "When an old woman like myself blushes, it is a very bad sign. Ah! Lord Henry, I wish you would tell me how to become young again."
He thought for a moment. "Can you remember any great error that you committed in your early days, Duchess?" he asked, looking at her across the table.
"A great many, I fear," she cried.
"Then commit them over again," he said gravely. "To get back one's youth, one has merely to repeat one's follies."
"A delightful theory!" she exclaimed. "I must put it into practice."
***
Ianto shut the book, setting it on the desk next to the travel pamphlets. The tourist office had been surprisingly busy lately. Apparently, Cardiff was suddenly a traveler’s paradise. While Gwen and Jack worked somewhere below him, he smiled blandly, giving tourists directions, advice and brochures. In the moments in between, he found himself drawn into the pages of the book again. He’d already memorized the letter, reading and rereading it when he was alone.
Who had it been left for? And had they ever received it? He wanted to do a little research, to dig into Torchwood’s past, try to discover the letter’s secrets. Absentmindedly, he picked up a pen and began writing down what he knew on the back of a brochure. Whoever had written the note had worked for Torchwood, and had been an Oscar Wilde fan. They’d also mentioned twins. How many Torchwood teams had consisted of twins? Probably not many. Ianto could search the past employment records, look through the archives, see what he could find.
Loud and important footsteps announced Jack’s presence. Ianto could hear him coming, even through the walls. Jack never tiptoed anywhere. The false wall swung open and the captain strode through. He wore his greatcoat, which meant he was probably going out. And there was a certain set to his mouth-a hard edge-that indicated he wasn’t going out for the fun of it.
Ianto had already moved, sliding the death note out of sight and into a drawer. The Picture of Dorian Gray remained in sight.
“Ordered lunch yet?” Jack asked, leaning on the desk.
“Not yet. Would you like me to…?”
Jack shook his head. “Good that you haven’t yet. Rift activity-sounds like something’s come through. Gwen and I are going to check it out, as long as you don’t mind holding down the fort.”
“Luckily for you,” Ianto said with a smile, “fort holding happens to be one of my specialties.”
The thin line of Jack’s mouth softened, and then he glanced down at the desk. “Still reading this?” He picked up the book, running his hand over the cover and looking at it speculatively. “And what are the characters doing now, besides being corrupted by society’s obsession with prettiness?” The question was lightly said but there was something almost anxious about it. Ianto recognized the motive immediately-he’d heard it before, mostly when too much was going on, too much danger, too many casualties, too many sleepless nights spent at work. It was a plea to be reminded that this wasn’t all there was. Sometimes they all needed to be reminded that a world existed beyond the isolated hub, to be distracted from the constant strain. Ianto could do that.
“You could always read it yourself,” he teased.
Jack waved that suggestion away. “It’s more fun to get the Ianto-version. Just the facts without any of the annoying work of reading it myself.”
“Yes, I’m like Spark Notes with a Welsh accent,” Ianto said wryly. He took the book from him, setting it carefully on the desk. “The characters are trying to recapture their youth by making the same mistakes over and over again.” His head remained tilted downward, but his eyes flicked up to look at Jack.
“Interesting.” Jack didn’t seem to want to commit to a stronger opinion.
Ianto picked up a stack of pamphlets, straightening and repositioning them. “Mistakes are hard things to make,” he said mildly. “I know I’ve made quite a few.”
“And do you think they were worth it? Worth remaking?” Jack sounded genuinely curious.
Some of them, yes. Others, well… other mistakes Ianto would have given anything to go back and fix. He could still see Tosh’s pale face in his mind, trying to force her quivering lips into a smile for her friends. It had been such a little thing, a tiny gesture at the end of everything. But that small brave act, that tenderness for her friends, even as her blood spilled and heart failed, had broken some part of Ianto. If only he’d left the cells earlier, instead of staying to let himself be folded into Jack’s arms, maybe he could have done something. He’d taken his comfort while Tosh had been dying a few floors up.
Ianto considered his answer carefully. He couldn’t tell the truth-he would not have Jack worrying for him on top of everything else. He could have lied. He was one of the few people that could lie to Jack’s face and (occasionally) get away with it. But he was out of practice and somehow the thought of doing it again left a bitter taste in the back of his throat. Instead, he gave an edited version of the truth. “I’m not sure I would do things the same way again. But I don’t regret the way my life is going, even if it did come about as a result of those mistakes.”
Mostly, anyways. And then he heard Owen’s voice, as the doctor volunteered to go to the nuclear plant. Tosh had insisted it was a suicide mission and Ianto had immediately planned to go himself, alone. Even when she claimed she was going with him, he had known he would find a way to slip away from her. He would not put her life in danger. But then the weevils had shown up, stalling their progress.
How easily he let Owen go in his place. Ianto swallowed hard. Guilt was at his shoulder again, hissing things in his ear about how it should have been him instead.
Jack’s hand fell on that shoulder, its warmth easing away the sudden tension in Ianto’s back. “I’ve got to go.” He squeezed, and then let his hand drop. Though the words were casual enough, but there was concern on Jack’s face. Like somehow he knew exactly what had flickered through Ianto’s mind. Jack leaned in and kissed him, just a brief crush of lips and Jack’s hand on the back of his neck, and then it was over.
Ianto watched him disappear back through the door. Once the sound of footsteps had died away, Ianto slid the drawer open and picked up the letter. He could lose himself in the mystery it presented, and the thought appealed to him. Time for the archivist to put his skills to use.
***
Ianto was at his work station, perusing the old employment files, when he heard the others return. He quickly exited out of the program. He didn’t want Jack or Gwen to find out what he was doing. Somehow researching the death of an old Torchwood employee seemed a little morbid at the moment. In the past the others might also have been curious, might have participated in his little quest to find out the truth. But losing people was a touchy subject right now and Ianto refused to be the source of more pain.
Gwen was the first one through the door, striding down the circular stairs to where Ianto stood. She carried several bags that smelled very promising. “We brought back lunch,” she said cheerfully, holding one up. “Although it’s probably more like dinner now.”
“What did you find?” Ianto asked, more curious about the rift activity than the food.
Jack tossed something at him. “Think fast.”
Ianto reacted without thinking, snatching something small and black out in midair. It was about the size of a tennis ball, but smooth and surprisingly warm to the touch. He examined it more closely. A stripe of orange ran around the ball, and several multi-colored buttons marked one side. “You just threw alien technology at me?” Ianto looked incredulously at Jack, who shrugged.
“Child’s toy. No really,” he said quickly, seeing Ianto and Gwen’s expressions. “It actually is a child’s toy. A few centuries ahead of its time, that’s all. Throw it, Ianto,” he added. “Throw it anywhere.”
Ianto gave him one more quizzical stare before pulling his arm back and giving the ball a good throw. It flew at the basketball hoop, whistling at it went. But instead of simply falling like a normal ball would, this one stayed aloft. It curved back and land squarely in Ianto’s outstretched hand.
Ianto looked at Gwen. Gwen looked at Jack. “So,” she said, taking the time to say each word individually, “you took me into the field, armed and ready, to retrieve a futuristic Frisbee?”
Ianto began to laugh. It felt like a strange and wonderful release and it took a moment to understand why. He hadn’t laughed in weeks. Gwen joined in, giggling so hard she had to lean on the wall for support. “It’s good to see your talents aren’t being wasted,” he managed to get out.
Jack tried to look annoyed and failed miserably. He, too, was caught up in their mirth. “It could have been an alien weapon,” he pointed out. “We have no way of knowing.”
“Or worse, it could have been an alien hula-hoop,” Ianto deadpanned, setting Gwen off again. This time she actually sat down, unable to stand for laughing.
Later, Ianto would remember it was the first any of them had enjoyed their job after losing Tosh and Owen.
***
"You have a new friend, I hear. Who is he? Why have you not told me about him? He means you no good."
"Stop, Jim!" she exclaimed. "You must not say anything against him. I love him."
"Why, you don't even know his name," answered the lad. "Who is he? I have a right to know."
"He is called Prince Charming. Don't you like the name. Oh! You silly boy! You should never forget it. If you only saw him, you would think him the most wonderful person in the world… I feel it. And it is all his, his only, Prince Charming, my wonderful lover, my god of graces. But I am poor beside him. Poor? What does that matter? When poverty creeps in at the door, love flies in through the window. Our proverbs want rewriting. They were made in winter, and it is summer now; spring-time for me, I think, a very dance of blossoms in blue skies."
"He is a gentleman," said the lad sullenly.
"A prince!" she cried musically. "What more do you want?"
"He wants to enslave you."
"I shudder at the thought of being free."
***
Ianto had reached a landmark-he was finally in the letter ‘b’ of the archives. He stretched, easing cramped muscles. It had only taken him a while to get to this point. He allowed himself a triumphant smile before taking a few steps backward to sit on the floor. It felt incredibly good to lean back and close his eyes.
He’d spent the last week dealing with a few extra terrestrial tourists. Jack had declared the small, furry creatures to be harmless (but very intelligent and fully capable of gnawing through a human stomach, so it would be in Rhys’s best interest to stop calling them ‘Fuzz-Balls.’) Things had only gotten difficult after their ship had been confiscated by UNIT, because apparently landing in a public parking spot was a bad idea. When the little things threatened to turn this into a diplomatic incident and to bring in something called the Shadow Proclamation. It took an entire week, a lot of retcon and calling in a few favors, but they managed to get the Fuzz-Balls their spaceship back. The downside was that closest UNIT base now loathed Torchwood. Ianto was pretty sure he was going to have to take over communication with them in the near future. Jack’s cheerful use of force and power didn’t go over too well with the UNIT officer in command.
As if summoned by Ianto’s thought, Jack’s voice sounded in his ear. “Hey, you still down in the dungeon?”
Ianto smiled, not opening his eyes, but reached up and touched the nearly invisible Bluetooth in his ear. “What can I do for you?”
It sounded like Jack heaved a sigh. “Give me an eight letter word for ‘agreement.’ It’s got the letter ‘v’ in it.”
Ianto thought about it for a moment. “Aren’t you supposed to be talking to the PM?” The evening teleconference had been set up weeks ago, and Jack couldn’t wriggle out of it. Since Gray’s attack, the government had kept a much closer eye on Torchwood, trying to make sure that nothing of that magnitude ever happened again. Jack hated the tightening of the reins, but he couldn’t shrug off responsibility for the attack either. No matter what anyone said or did, nothing could convince the captain that it wasn’t his fault.
“I’m still waiting for the call,” Jack said, sounding a little irritable. “Apparently, we’re not even worth being called on time.”
So he was in one of those moods. Ianto quickly turned off his Bluetooth and stood. He reached down to pick up his bag and sling it around his shoulder. He slipped the inventory list into it and flicked off the lights as he left the room. He had a feeling he wouldn’t be returning for a few hours, and he hated wasting electricity. Quickly, he made his way back into the main levels of the hub, where he knew Jack would be.
As predicted, Jack was sitting at his desk, feet propped up on it, studying a crossword puzzle with a frown. His phone sat on the desk, ready for use.
“Covenant,” Ianto said.
Jack looked up, then back down again. “Perfect,” he muttered, scrawling the word into the puzzle. “That one was bugging me, too.” When he met Ianto’s gaze again, he looked a little less bad-tempered. “Thanks.”
“Anytime.” Ianto leaned on the edge of the desk. “Where’s Gwen? I would have thought she’d be good at crosswords.”
“I sent her home. She hasn’t spent much time with her husband.” Jack’s mouth twisted bitterly. “We’ve all been married to Torchwood lately.” His face had hardened, as if frozen in the midst of some unpleasant thought. Then it abruptly smoothed out in one of those mood shifts, one where Jack tried to shove his fears and worries aside and focus on something else. “So did you come all this way to help me conquer a word puzzle, or is there something else you came to give me…?” The last words were said very slowly, as if Jack were tasting them for all their possibilities.
Ianto kept his face still and hopefully impossible to read. “How strong do you want it?” he asked.
A slow smile crept over Jack’s face. He opened his mouth to answer.
Ianto cut him off. “Your eyes are bloodshot, which means you haven’t slept yet. And judging by the way you’re rubbing the side of your head, that headache must be painful. My diagnosis-caffeine withdrawal and sleep deprivation. So, I’ll repeat my question: how strong would you like your coffee?” The corner of his mouth twitched as he suppressed a smirk.
Jack looked like a child that had just had a sweet dangled in his face and then yanked away. “Coffee?”
“What else would I mean?”
Jack was biting his lip, trying to keep himself from grinning. “You are dangerous,” he said.
Ianto pushed himself to his feet. He turned to face Jack, hands in his pockets, and smiling in what he hoped was a very innocent manner. “If you say so, sir.” He turned to leave, to go and make the promised coffee, but Jack’s voice stopped him.
“Finished with that book of yours yet?”
Ianto shook his head. “Little time for reading. I think it’s currently collecting dust next to the coffee maker.”
“And before you were forced to put it down, where was the plot going?” Jack put the crossword puzzle aside and leaned forward a bit, resting his chin on one hand.
“The romance was just beginning between Dorian Gray and Sybil Vane.”
Jack looked at him, interested. Too interested. “Really?”
“Don’t get excited,” Ianto said. “There’s nothing physical at all. Love at first sight, really. Hopes and dreams built on infatuation.”
“Sounds like a shaky foundation. What happens?”
“What happens to a house that’s built on a shaky foundation?”
Jack waved his hands around, as if to imitate the walls falling down around them. “And how exactly does this house collapse?”
“He sees her at her weakest and runs away. And when he’s ready to return, she’s already committed suicide.”
Jack rolled his shoulders, as if trying to work out knotted muscles and tension. “That’s the problem with infatuation. Don’t know what you’re getting into. It’s fun as hell, though.”
“But not enough to base an entire future on,” Ianto said.
“No, it’s not.”
“What do you think would be a steady foundation?” The words were out before Ianto even realized. God, why did I just ask that? He swallowed audibly and for one horrid moment, he felt as if he were teetering on the edge of a very tall cliff. Adrenaline burned its way through him and he stared at the floor, trying to contain the sudden surge of panic. Things were just fine the way they were and this was not the time to push boundaries. Shit. Ianto forced his gaze upward, to say “never mind,” or something along those lines. But the words died on his tongue. Jack’s gaze was locked on him, like a spotlight on a dark stage. So intense, so hungry, it almost made Ianto want to cringe away. But he held Jack’s eyes for as long as he could.
Ianto spoke, and the tension snapped-like a string drawn too tightly. “I should get back to the archives.”
Jack looked at him carefully, speculatively. “You know, I’ve noticed you have been doing some research.”
Ianto halted mid-step. Heat flooded his face and suddenly he was infinitely glad that he was facing away from Jack. It gave him a moment to regain his composure. It was a skill born of much practice, back when he’d had a very large secret hiding in the lower levels of the hub and his poker face was all that stood between Lisa and Torchwood. Now, when swiveled around, he knew exactly how to keep his face open and neutral. “Have I?”
“You’ve been looking into the old personnel files.” Jack didn’t seem suspicious, only curious.
“Oh, yes.” Ianto once again edited the truth, leaving out the uncomfortable parts. “I found a few strange items in the archives. I’ve been trying to reorganize it, as you know, and those items have been bothering me. I don’t think they belong with the other artifacts-they’re not alien and I think they might have been left there by mistake. They’re more like personal possessions. I was just curious as to who left them there.”
“Found anything?” Jack began twirling his pencil through his fingers as if he weren’t really aware that he did it. Ianto watched it as it spun back and forth along Jack’s knuckles, like a poker dealer with a card. He felt mildly hypnotized as he stared, then wrenched his gaze back to Jack’s face.
Ianto made no attempt to disguise his frustration. “Not a thing.”
“Well, I’ve been an employee longer here than anyone else.” There was a trace of something bitter in Jack’s voice. “Maybe if you describe it to me-”
And then his mobile began to ring. The vibration mode kicked in, making it skitter across the desk.
Jack tilted his head, appearing to consider something. “I can’t think of anyone that would leave stuff lying around in the archives… not offhand, anyway.” He flashed a grin. “To be honest, most people stayed away from that area until you came along. Too much work, too little excitement.”
Ianto pointed one finger at the desk. “Are you going to answer that?”
Jack picked it up and let out a heavy breath, as if to keep himself from throwing the mobile against a wall. “Why don’t you check the inventory?” Jack suggested. “Maybe those things really are part of the archive.” Then he flipped the phone open. “This is Captain Harkness.”
Ianto drifted out of the office, giving Jack an encouraging thumbs-up as he did so.
***
When Ianto finally got around to checking the inventory list, it was around noon of the next day. Gwen was working at her station, mouth set in a grim line. A new victim of the rift had appeared that morning and while Jack went to settle in the patient at Flat Holm. It was emotionally draining work and Ianto had offered to help, but Jack had said he would be fine and Gwen had taken it upon herself to enter the new patient’s records into the mainframe. Since she had discovered Flat Holm, she’d helped whenever needed, and done it quietly and without questions. It was a strange reversal from her usual nature-she wasn’t motivated to find solutions or interfere. She simply accepted Jack’s orders and never met the captain’s eyes until the Flat Holm business was taken care of. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was penance. Ianto felt a twinge himself-after all, it had been his doing that had clued her in. Although she had vehemently said she didn’t blame him, he had still been the one that had taken a bit of her innocence away. So when this new patient showed up, she’d volunteered to do the paperwork and waved Ianto’s offers to help away.
Ianto found himself back in the archives, flipping through the inventory list.
“Book, book, book,” Ianto murmured to himself, scanning the content pages. When his eyes fell upon the book’s title, he felt a jolt of excitement. So the book had been an official part of the archives. That would make it easier. Archivists were supposed to leave reports on each item they logged, including a physical description of it, the date it was found and any other relevant details. But something nagged at him as he flipped through the pages to find the correct one. What were an Oscar Wilde book and death note doing in the archives? It looked as if he was finally going to get his answer.
Date: 1/23/53
Found Items: The Picture of Dorian Gray & 1 personal letter
The two items were found amidst debris and several broken technological devices that were obviously not from this time period; they are mostly likely from some future time, or alternative reality. The book is “The Picture of Dorian Gray,” by Oscar Wilde. Tucked into its pages is a letter from one Torchwood employee to another. There is no relevant date or even last names to give us any clue as to when or where the book came from. We have already searched all other Torchwood outposts to see if any of them have employees with these names, but nothing has matched up. Because it’s obviously not dangerous or useful, we’re just going to leave it in the archives. We have reprinted the contents of the letter here, in case the original becomes damaged in some way.
I’m sorry. I know by the time you find this note, I will probably be dead. I just want you to know that I love you. So much so that I could not allow you to put yourself in danger. DO NOT BLAME YOURSELF. These years working at Torchwood have been among the best I’ve ever known. Most people spend their lives just existing, not really aware of the world. I can die knowing that I have lived every one of these years. As far as final requests, say goodbye to the twins for me, and to Gwen, and don’t let my coffee machine rust.
And take care of yourself, Jack. Please, just take care.
-Ianto
The inventory list tumbled to the ground, out of Ianto’s numb fingers.
***
Part Two
The Curves of your Lips (Rewrite History)
Author: Jazie
Length: 9,800 words
Pairings: Jack/Ianto
Rating: PG13
Spoilers: This takes place after Exit Wounds, so everything up through then.
Summary: Ianto Jones found it somewhat amusing that even in an archive full of alien artifacts, he still managed to unearth something that surprised him.
Author’s Notes: This is the result of one of my friends demanding a Torchwood fic that included some sort of literary references. To my surprise, it took on a life of its own. It’s unbeta-ed, so all mistakes are my own damn fault. Thanks for reading, and hope you enjoy my first venture in this fandom.
***
Ianto Jones found it somewhat amusing that even in an archive full of alien artifacts, he still managed to unearth something that surprised him. After all, nothing should’ve been able to surprise him anymore.
He’d been doing inventory. It was a tedious task that required a lot of checking and rechecking, so it made sense that most of Torchwood Three’s employees would have avoided it all costs. They thrived in states of chaos and clutter, reveling in the thrills and avoiding the drudgery. Or at least they once had, Ianto thought. When two of their number were killed so suddenly, something of the thrill had gone. He’d seen it in Gwen’s eyes when they’d gone weevil hunting a few days afterwards. The clean-up operation after Gray’s attack had been enormous, and there had been little time for grieving. Weevils kept popping up in unfortunate locations and despite the help UNIT provided, the remnants of Torchwood worked round the clock to keep things under control. When they’d worked, Ianto had observed the change in both Gwen and Jack. There was no playful gleam, no triumphant grin as the aliens were shepherded back into their underground home. They took no joy or pride in their work. It was simply that-work.
They each dealt with the loss in different ways. Ianto watched as Gwen struggled to understand, tried to comprehend how one human being could have caused so much pain. He saw her try to talk with Jack a few times, but she gave up, unsatisfied by his silence. She probably talked to Rhys, who she’d spent much more time with lately. She needed someone to mull things over with, to hold her and reassure her. Ianto offered her an ear to speak to when they were caught up at work, when she couldn’t see her sympathetic husband. He never said anything, but let the words spill from her mouth-sometimes confused, sometimes angry, sometimes helpless. Ianto knew he was a far cry from a psychologist, but he hoped his presence helped.
Jack had retreated into work and rooftop brooding, of course. If Gwen needed to talk about things, Jack needed silence just as much. He never spoke. But in the silence, Ianto heard everything. He saw it in the way Jack ran his fingers over a picture of Tosh. Heard it in the uncomfortable moments when someone forgot and mentioned Owen casually. Felt it when Jack held him tightly, almost desperately, when they spent the night together.
And Ianto… Ianto dealt with the loss by reorganizing the archives.
The monotony felt comforting. After weeks of almost nonstop chaos, it was soothing to be in control again. There was no crisis, for the moment, so he dug out the inventory list and began to update it. The archives had never exactly been structured. Things were always being borrowed, studied, and put back under the wrong label. Or not put back at all. He’d found some sort of device Tosh had sworn was an alien chew-toy underneath Jack’s desk, an ultra-light scanner in the infirmary, and a small piece of broken machinery in the pterodactyl nest. Ianto applied himself to the task with his usual dedication, reviewing the inventory list and going through the archives alphabetically. If he worked on it every day for a few hours, he estimated he’d be done in about a year or so.
Oh, well. It wasn’t really about getting the work done, Ianto acknowledged to himself. More like losing himself in the work as it got done. If he spent a few hours trying to figure out where things went, if they had lost something and if so, how, than those would be a few hours he wasn’t thinking about anything else.
He’d been at it for about three hours when he found something unexpected. Or more unexpected than most of what he found. Sitting underneath an ornate sword was a book. He gently lifted the weapon, careful of its many blades, and withdrew the volume. It took a second to wipe away the dust and recognize the title.
The Picture of Dorian Gray.
He blinked. He had never considered himself to be a literary expert, but he was pretty sure that Oscar Wilde had not been of alien origin. Had someone left it here by mistake? He flipped it open, looking to see if anyone had perhaps scrawled a name or other mark of ownership in it. Nothing… except a slip of paper tucked away somewhere in the middle of the book.
The paper looked old. Its edge, the one not protected inside the book, was yellow, withered and torn. He pulled it out. It was some sort of handwritten letter.
I’m sorry. I know by the time you find this note, I will probably be dead. I just want you to know that I love you. So much so that I could not allow you to put yourself in danger. DO NOT BLAME YOURSELF. These years working at Torchwood have been among the best I’ve ever known. Most people spend their lives just existing, not really aware of the world. I can die knowing that I have lived every one of these years. As far as final requests, say goodbye to the twins for-
If there had been a signature, Ianto couldn’t tell. The end had been part of the paper to wither and fade away, lost to time. But Ianto found himself staring at the note, surprised when it began to swim before his eyes. He quickly rubbed a sleeve over his face, squeezing the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. Torchwood was a dangerous place to work. He knew that better than anyone. No one he’d been acquainted with had ever made it to retirement. Yet somehow it still surprised him to find proof that previous generations of Torchwood had died for one another. And left death notes in classical books.
The words repeated themselves in his mind, sending painful twinges through him. They were far too familiar, hitting close to home. But the obvious age of the paper meant that neither Owen nor Tosh could have left this. And even if time hadn’t been an issue, the style wasn’t either of theirs. Tosh had used her tech savvy nature to record her last farewells, and in true Owen fashion, the doctor hadn’t thought that far ahead. Or if he had, he’d chosen to ignore the dangers and stride into the future without a backward glance.
He folded the note in half, the way it had been, and slipped it back into the book. But to his surprise, he found himself placing it on a shelf near the exit, where he could retrieve it when he left. Some part of him didn’t want to let go of it just yet.
Releasing a long breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, Ianto let himself feel the overwhelming sadness for a moment. Just a moment, then he’d be all right. When his time was up, he turned back to the archives. If he hurried, maybe he could finish the ‘a’ section before the week was up.
***
Ianto shoved his key into the door and pushed it open. His flat was cold and the air tasted dusty and stale on his lips, but even so Ianto felt his shoulders slump in relief as he walked inside and shut the door behind him.
His exhaustion and worry worked against each other. He felt tired, but jumpy at the same time. Ianto wearily went to his bedroom. His suit was a dark, muddy brown where it had previously been a navy blue. He resisted the urge to groan-the nice girl that worked at the drycleaners was going to give him that look again. The “what the hell do you expect me to do with this?” look that he seemed to be on the receiving end of more often these days. He couldn’t explain why he brought them clothes stained with blood, dirt and sometimes a few unidentifiable substances (after all, what would they have thought of weevil hunting), but he could tip them very well. That kept the looks from evolving into full blown complaints.
This particular weevil had led him on a merry chase, through an old car lot and into a muddy alley. Ianto had his weevil spray at the ready, but his gun remained tucked securely away. The weevil hadn’t killed anyone, but had been driven out of its sewer home by a construction crew. It had been spooking the locals when Jack got the call and Ianto volunteered to shepherd it back out of the public eye. But still, the chase had been exhausting and Ianto ended up being pushed into a well-tended garden at one point. Eventually the weevil had found its way back into an open drain. Ianto stayed for a few minutes to make sure it wasn’t going to reemerge, and then made his way back to his flat. He looked as if he’d been rolling in the dirt. And although he could handle Jack’s lewd comments about how he looked good dirty, Ianto hated the feeling of something oozing around in his shoes. A change was definitely in order.
As he peeled off his wet shirt, his phone beeped, indicating he’d just received a text. He didn’t even need to look at the name or number to know who it was.
Where r u? How’d it go?
Ianto picked up his phone and quickly replied.
Weevil taken care of. At home, changing my clothes. I’ll be back soon.
Ianto used the minute before Jack replied to change out of his ruined clothes. When his phone trilled, he was about to step into the shower. But he dutifully picked it up and checked the message first.
Take the rest of the evening off.
Ianto stared at the message, and then quickly pressed the first number on his speed dial.
“Hey,” Jack said. He never said ‘hello,’ upon answering, but instead launched right into a conversation. “I know what you’re going to say, and don’t even bother. I think you got the last of the weevils tonight. The rift’s been quiet. You don’t need to be at work right now.”
Ianto glanced around his flat, at the stark stillness of the rooms, the dust gathering on every flat surface and the obvious lack of things to do. It didn’t matter if he was tired, if his bones ached, he needed to do something.
“Jack-”
“Stay home. Order takeout. Watch a movie, read a book, just do something that doesn’t involve work.” Jack’s tone softened. “The city will last one night without you watching over it. You need a break. You’ve been going for weeks.”
There was no arguing with the captain-Ianto could sense the finality in those last words. He was stuck here for the night. He let out a sigh, defeated. “Are you planning on working all night?” What he meant was, will I see you tonight?
Jack knew him well. “I might take a break, if someone offered me a place to go.”
“I’m offering.”
“I’m accepting. I’ll see you later.”
Smiling, Ianto put the phone down on the counter and stepped into the shower.
***
Clean and dressed in sweats, Ianto sunk into his couch. He felt refreshed, but still troubled by his inability to relax. His mind kept returning to the Hub, reviewing the reports he had yet to finish, wondering if he’d cut the power to the coffee machine, and where he had put the inventory list. Frustrated, he rummaged through his shoulder bag, hoping maybe he’d find something work-related he could delve into. The only thing he came up with was an old book. He blinked. It was the one he’d found in the archives a few days ago-The Picture of Dorian Gray, with that letter inside.
He opened it, running his index finger down the book’s spine. The letter he carefully removed and placed back inside the bag, but he kept the book open. The first few words caught his eye and he found himself drawn into nineteenth century London. It was surprisingly easy to lose himself in the characters, in their discussions of society and art.
He only realized he’d fallen asleep when he heard the floorboards creak. Ianto sat up and a blanket that hadn’t been there before fell away from his chest. Blinking quickly, trying to bring the world into focus, he glanced up. Jack was frozen mid-step, a book in his hands. He looked as if he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. He dropped the book onto the glass coffee table. Ianto swung his legs over the side of the couch so Jack had somewhere to sit. “What time is it?” he asked. “How’d you get in?”
“Late.” Jack sat next to him. “I used the spare key. Sorry, I forgot about that part of the floor. Ever thought of talking to your landlord about it?”
“You should have woken me. We could have got food or something.” Ianto rubbed the sleep away from his eyes.
There was something mischievous in Jack’s grin. “And miss the chance to watch you sleep?”
“That’s… kind of creepy.”
“You drooled, by the way.”
Ianto’s hand came up, automatically wiping at his mouth. “And you’ve been watching me for how long?”
Jack shrugged. “Just a little while. I was distracted by your choice of reading material.”
Ianto reached out and picked up the book. “Are you a Wilde fan?”
“I’ve never actually read him before. Scandalous, I know. A man of my intellect not reading such a classic.” The edges of Jack’s mouth curved upward, but there was something other than humor in that smile. “But this book never really interested me.”
Ianto lowered his gaze to his own hands, sensing that if he continued to look into Jack’s eyes, he might not receive a truthful answer. “Any particular reason?”
Jack didn’t reply right away. Instead, he reached out and traced the edge of Ianto’s hand, the one that held the book. “A man destroyed by immortality?” Jack murmured. “Killing those closest to him through his own selfish choices? Somehow I never found that plot very appealing.”
Ah. Ianto looked up, waiting to catch Jack’s eye before speaking. “It wasn’t his fault, you know. The main character ended up being corrupted by society’s obsession with physical beauty.”
Jack tilted his head, as if to get a better look at Ianto. “I take it you’ve read this before.”
“An old girlfriend,” Ianto said, and he could feel a flush creeping along his neck. “Not Lisa, but before her. Her favorite class was literature.”
Jack leaned back, gesturing at the book. “Read to me?”
Ianto raised one eyebrow in question.
Jack spoke much more quietly. “I like listening to your voice. Come on.” He flashed a patented Jack Harkness grin. “Please?”
With a roll of his eyes, Ianto flipped the book open and acquiesced. It took only a few seconds to find the place where he’d left off.
“‘Well, after I had been in the room about ten minutes,’” he read, “‘talking to huge over-dressed dowagers and tedious academicians, I suddenly became conscious that someone was looking at me. I turned half-way round and saw Dorian Gray for the first time. When our eyes met, I felt that I was growing pale. A curious sensation of terror came over me. I knew that I had come face to face with someone whose mere personality was so fascinating that, if I allowed it to do so, it would absorb my whole nature, my whole soul, my very art itself. I did not want any external influence in my life. You know yourself, Harry, how independent I am by nature. I have always been my own master; had at least always been so, till I met Dorian Gray.’”
Ianto paused for breath, but also for thought. The words managed to worm their way into his memories, drawing out certain images and sensations. Another first meeting. Arms outstretched, ready to catch the man plummeting towards him. Cement digging into his back and a heavy weight on his chest. An inhuman shriek as the pterodactyl came plummeting toward them and a sudden twist and shift of position. Then the cold air was replaced by hot breath, and the sudden closeness of the man beneath him. He had scrambled to his feet, feeling something akin to panic. Because he knew, just knew, he could lose himself in the feel of that kind of closeness.
The silence drew Jack’s attention. If he could guess as to what Ianto was thinking about, he didn’t say. Instead he leaned forward, fingertips ghosting over Ianto’s jaw, and brushed the lightest of kisses against his mouth. “You should go back to sleep,” Jack whispered. “You need rest.”
Ianto responded by pressing harder, deepening the kiss. He could still lose himself in Jack, but the prospect no longer terrified him. He pulled back a little, to speak. “I need something else more, sir,” he said, putting a little emphasis on the last word. He could feel Jack’s lips twitch into a smile.
“I could never deny an employee anything.” Jack’s clever fingers slipped underneath Ianto’s shirt, gliding downward. He shivered, but all he felt was heat.
The book slipped off the couch, forgotten.
***
"A blush is very becoming, Duchess," remarked Lord Henry.
"Only when one is young," she answered. "When an old woman like myself blushes, it is a very bad sign. Ah! Lord Henry, I wish you would tell me how to become young again."
He thought for a moment. "Can you remember any great error that you committed in your early days, Duchess?" he asked, looking at her across the table.
"A great many, I fear," she cried.
"Then commit them over again," he said gravely. "To get back one's youth, one has merely to repeat one's follies."
"A delightful theory!" she exclaimed. "I must put it into practice."
***
Ianto shut the book, setting it on the desk next to the travel pamphlets. The tourist office had been surprisingly busy lately. Apparently, Cardiff was suddenly a traveler’s paradise. While Gwen and Jack worked somewhere below him, he smiled blandly, giving tourists directions, advice and brochures. In the moments in between, he found himself drawn into the pages of the book again. He’d already memorized the letter, reading and rereading it when he was alone.
Who had it been left for? And had they ever received it? He wanted to do a little research, to dig into Torchwood’s past, try to discover the letter’s secrets. Absentmindedly, he picked up a pen and began writing down what he knew on the back of a brochure. Whoever had written the note had worked for Torchwood, and had been an Oscar Wilde fan. They’d also mentioned twins. How many Torchwood teams had consisted of twins? Probably not many. Ianto could search the past employment records, look through the archives, see what he could find.
Loud and important footsteps announced Jack’s presence. Ianto could hear him coming, even through the walls. Jack never tiptoed anywhere. The false wall swung open and the captain strode through. He wore his greatcoat, which meant he was probably going out. And there was a certain set to his mouth-a hard edge-that indicated he wasn’t going out for the fun of it.
Ianto had already moved, sliding the death note out of sight and into a drawer. The Picture of Dorian Gray remained in sight.
“Ordered lunch yet?” Jack asked, leaning on the desk.
“Not yet. Would you like me to…?”
Jack shook his head. “Good that you haven’t yet. Rift activity-sounds like something’s come through. Gwen and I are going to check it out, as long as you don’t mind holding down the fort.”
“Luckily for you,” Ianto said with a smile, “fort holding happens to be one of my specialties.”
The thin line of Jack’s mouth softened, and then he glanced down at the desk. “Still reading this?” He picked up the book, running his hand over the cover and looking at it speculatively. “And what are the characters doing now, besides being corrupted by society’s obsession with prettiness?” The question was lightly said but there was something almost anxious about it. Ianto recognized the motive immediately-he’d heard it before, mostly when too much was going on, too much danger, too many casualties, too many sleepless nights spent at work. It was a plea to be reminded that this wasn’t all there was. Sometimes they all needed to be reminded that a world existed beyond the isolated hub, to be distracted from the constant strain. Ianto could do that.
“You could always read it yourself,” he teased.
Jack waved that suggestion away. “It’s more fun to get the Ianto-version. Just the facts without any of the annoying work of reading it myself.”
“Yes, I’m like Spark Notes with a Welsh accent,” Ianto said wryly. He took the book from him, setting it carefully on the desk. “The characters are trying to recapture their youth by making the same mistakes over and over again.” His head remained tilted downward, but his eyes flicked up to look at Jack.
“Interesting.” Jack didn’t seem to want to commit to a stronger opinion.
Ianto picked up a stack of pamphlets, straightening and repositioning them. “Mistakes are hard things to make,” he said mildly. “I know I’ve made quite a few.”
“And do you think they were worth it? Worth remaking?” Jack sounded genuinely curious.
Some of them, yes. Others, well… other mistakes Ianto would have given anything to go back and fix. He could still see Tosh’s pale face in his mind, trying to force her quivering lips into a smile for her friends. It had been such a little thing, a tiny gesture at the end of everything. But that small brave act, that tenderness for her friends, even as her blood spilled and heart failed, had broken some part of Ianto. If only he’d left the cells earlier, instead of staying to let himself be folded into Jack’s arms, maybe he could have done something. He’d taken his comfort while Tosh had been dying a few floors up.
Ianto considered his answer carefully. He couldn’t tell the truth-he would not have Jack worrying for him on top of everything else. He could have lied. He was one of the few people that could lie to Jack’s face and (occasionally) get away with it. But he was out of practice and somehow the thought of doing it again left a bitter taste in the back of his throat. Instead, he gave an edited version of the truth. “I’m not sure I would do things the same way again. But I don’t regret the way my life is going, even if it did come about as a result of those mistakes.”
Mostly, anyways. And then he heard Owen’s voice, as the doctor volunteered to go to the nuclear plant. Tosh had insisted it was a suicide mission and Ianto had immediately planned to go himself, alone. Even when she claimed she was going with him, he had known he would find a way to slip away from her. He would not put her life in danger. But then the weevils had shown up, stalling their progress.
How easily he let Owen go in his place. Ianto swallowed hard. Guilt was at his shoulder again, hissing things in his ear about how it should have been him instead.
Jack’s hand fell on that shoulder, its warmth easing away the sudden tension in Ianto’s back. “I’ve got to go.” He squeezed, and then let his hand drop. Though the words were casual enough, but there was concern on Jack’s face. Like somehow he knew exactly what had flickered through Ianto’s mind. Jack leaned in and kissed him, just a brief crush of lips and Jack’s hand on the back of his neck, and then it was over.
Ianto watched him disappear back through the door. Once the sound of footsteps had died away, Ianto slid the drawer open and picked up the letter. He could lose himself in the mystery it presented, and the thought appealed to him. Time for the archivist to put his skills to use.
***
Ianto was at his work station, perusing the old employment files, when he heard the others return. He quickly exited out of the program. He didn’t want Jack or Gwen to find out what he was doing. Somehow researching the death of an old Torchwood employee seemed a little morbid at the moment. In the past the others might also have been curious, might have participated in his little quest to find out the truth. But losing people was a touchy subject right now and Ianto refused to be the source of more pain.
Gwen was the first one through the door, striding down the circular stairs to where Ianto stood. She carried several bags that smelled very promising. “We brought back lunch,” she said cheerfully, holding one up. “Although it’s probably more like dinner now.”
“What did you find?” Ianto asked, more curious about the rift activity than the food.
Jack tossed something at him. “Think fast.”
Ianto reacted without thinking, snatching something small and black out in midair. It was about the size of a tennis ball, but smooth and surprisingly warm to the touch. He examined it more closely. A stripe of orange ran around the ball, and several multi-colored buttons marked one side. “You just threw alien technology at me?” Ianto looked incredulously at Jack, who shrugged.
“Child’s toy. No really,” he said quickly, seeing Ianto and Gwen’s expressions. “It actually is a child’s toy. A few centuries ahead of its time, that’s all. Throw it, Ianto,” he added. “Throw it anywhere.”
Ianto gave him one more quizzical stare before pulling his arm back and giving the ball a good throw. It flew at the basketball hoop, whistling at it went. But instead of simply falling like a normal ball would, this one stayed aloft. It curved back and land squarely in Ianto’s outstretched hand.
Ianto looked at Gwen. Gwen looked at Jack. “So,” she said, taking the time to say each word individually, “you took me into the field, armed and ready, to retrieve a futuristic Frisbee?”
Ianto began to laugh. It felt like a strange and wonderful release and it took a moment to understand why. He hadn’t laughed in weeks. Gwen joined in, giggling so hard she had to lean on the wall for support. “It’s good to see your talents aren’t being wasted,” he managed to get out.
Jack tried to look annoyed and failed miserably. He, too, was caught up in their mirth. “It could have been an alien weapon,” he pointed out. “We have no way of knowing.”
“Or worse, it could have been an alien hula-hoop,” Ianto deadpanned, setting Gwen off again. This time she actually sat down, unable to stand for laughing.
Later, Ianto would remember it was the first any of them had enjoyed their job after losing Tosh and Owen.
***
"You have a new friend, I hear. Who is he? Why have you not told me about him? He means you no good."
"Stop, Jim!" she exclaimed. "You must not say anything against him. I love him."
"Why, you don't even know his name," answered the lad. "Who is he? I have a right to know."
"He is called Prince Charming. Don't you like the name. Oh! You silly boy! You should never forget it. If you only saw him, you would think him the most wonderful person in the world… I feel it. And it is all his, his only, Prince Charming, my wonderful lover, my god of graces. But I am poor beside him. Poor? What does that matter? When poverty creeps in at the door, love flies in through the window. Our proverbs want rewriting. They were made in winter, and it is summer now; spring-time for me, I think, a very dance of blossoms in blue skies."
"He is a gentleman," said the lad sullenly.
"A prince!" she cried musically. "What more do you want?"
"He wants to enslave you."
"I shudder at the thought of being free."
***
Ianto had reached a landmark-he was finally in the letter ‘b’ of the archives. He stretched, easing cramped muscles. It had only taken him a while to get to this point. He allowed himself a triumphant smile before taking a few steps backward to sit on the floor. It felt incredibly good to lean back and close his eyes.
He’d spent the last week dealing with a few extra terrestrial tourists. Jack had declared the small, furry creatures to be harmless (but very intelligent and fully capable of gnawing through a human stomach, so it would be in Rhys’s best interest to stop calling them ‘Fuzz-Balls.’) Things had only gotten difficult after their ship had been confiscated by UNIT, because apparently landing in a public parking spot was a bad idea. When the little things threatened to turn this into a diplomatic incident and to bring in something called the Shadow Proclamation. It took an entire week, a lot of retcon and calling in a few favors, but they managed to get the Fuzz-Balls their spaceship back. The downside was that closest UNIT base now loathed Torchwood. Ianto was pretty sure he was going to have to take over communication with them in the near future. Jack’s cheerful use of force and power didn’t go over too well with the UNIT officer in command.
As if summoned by Ianto’s thought, Jack’s voice sounded in his ear. “Hey, you still down in the dungeon?”
Ianto smiled, not opening his eyes, but reached up and touched the nearly invisible Bluetooth in his ear. “What can I do for you?”
It sounded like Jack heaved a sigh. “Give me an eight letter word for ‘agreement.’ It’s got the letter ‘v’ in it.”
Ianto thought about it for a moment. “Aren’t you supposed to be talking to the PM?” The evening teleconference had been set up weeks ago, and Jack couldn’t wriggle out of it. Since Gray’s attack, the government had kept a much closer eye on Torchwood, trying to make sure that nothing of that magnitude ever happened again. Jack hated the tightening of the reins, but he couldn’t shrug off responsibility for the attack either. No matter what anyone said or did, nothing could convince the captain that it wasn’t his fault.
“I’m still waiting for the call,” Jack said, sounding a little irritable. “Apparently, we’re not even worth being called on time.”
So he was in one of those moods. Ianto quickly turned off his Bluetooth and stood. He reached down to pick up his bag and sling it around his shoulder. He slipped the inventory list into it and flicked off the lights as he left the room. He had a feeling he wouldn’t be returning for a few hours, and he hated wasting electricity. Quickly, he made his way back into the main levels of the hub, where he knew Jack would be.
As predicted, Jack was sitting at his desk, feet propped up on it, studying a crossword puzzle with a frown. His phone sat on the desk, ready for use.
“Covenant,” Ianto said.
Jack looked up, then back down again. “Perfect,” he muttered, scrawling the word into the puzzle. “That one was bugging me, too.” When he met Ianto’s gaze again, he looked a little less bad-tempered. “Thanks.”
“Anytime.” Ianto leaned on the edge of the desk. “Where’s Gwen? I would have thought she’d be good at crosswords.”
“I sent her home. She hasn’t spent much time with her husband.” Jack’s mouth twisted bitterly. “We’ve all been married to Torchwood lately.” His face had hardened, as if frozen in the midst of some unpleasant thought. Then it abruptly smoothed out in one of those mood shifts, one where Jack tried to shove his fears and worries aside and focus on something else. “So did you come all this way to help me conquer a word puzzle, or is there something else you came to give me…?” The last words were said very slowly, as if Jack were tasting them for all their possibilities.
Ianto kept his face still and hopefully impossible to read. “How strong do you want it?” he asked.
A slow smile crept over Jack’s face. He opened his mouth to answer.
Ianto cut him off. “Your eyes are bloodshot, which means you haven’t slept yet. And judging by the way you’re rubbing the side of your head, that headache must be painful. My diagnosis-caffeine withdrawal and sleep deprivation. So, I’ll repeat my question: how strong would you like your coffee?” The corner of his mouth twitched as he suppressed a smirk.
Jack looked like a child that had just had a sweet dangled in his face and then yanked away. “Coffee?”
“What else would I mean?”
Jack was biting his lip, trying to keep himself from grinning. “You are dangerous,” he said.
Ianto pushed himself to his feet. He turned to face Jack, hands in his pockets, and smiling in what he hoped was a very innocent manner. “If you say so, sir.” He turned to leave, to go and make the promised coffee, but Jack’s voice stopped him.
“Finished with that book of yours yet?”
Ianto shook his head. “Little time for reading. I think it’s currently collecting dust next to the coffee maker.”
“And before you were forced to put it down, where was the plot going?” Jack put the crossword puzzle aside and leaned forward a bit, resting his chin on one hand.
“The romance was just beginning between Dorian Gray and Sybil Vane.”
Jack looked at him, interested. Too interested. “Really?”
“Don’t get excited,” Ianto said. “There’s nothing physical at all. Love at first sight, really. Hopes and dreams built on infatuation.”
“Sounds like a shaky foundation. What happens?”
“What happens to a house that’s built on a shaky foundation?”
Jack waved his hands around, as if to imitate the walls falling down around them. “And how exactly does this house collapse?”
“He sees her at her weakest and runs away. And when he’s ready to return, she’s already committed suicide.”
Jack rolled his shoulders, as if trying to work out knotted muscles and tension. “That’s the problem with infatuation. Don’t know what you’re getting into. It’s fun as hell, though.”
“But not enough to base an entire future on,” Ianto said.
“No, it’s not.”
“What do you think would be a steady foundation?” The words were out before Ianto even realized. God, why did I just ask that? He swallowed audibly and for one horrid moment, he felt as if he were teetering on the edge of a very tall cliff. Adrenaline burned its way through him and he stared at the floor, trying to contain the sudden surge of panic. Things were just fine the way they were and this was not the time to push boundaries. Shit. Ianto forced his gaze upward, to say “never mind,” or something along those lines. But the words died on his tongue. Jack’s gaze was locked on him, like a spotlight on a dark stage. So intense, so hungry, it almost made Ianto want to cringe away. But he held Jack’s eyes for as long as he could.
Ianto spoke, and the tension snapped-like a string drawn too tightly. “I should get back to the archives.”
Jack looked at him carefully, speculatively. “You know, I’ve noticed you have been doing some research.”
Ianto halted mid-step. Heat flooded his face and suddenly he was infinitely glad that he was facing away from Jack. It gave him a moment to regain his composure. It was a skill born of much practice, back when he’d had a very large secret hiding in the lower levels of the hub and his poker face was all that stood between Lisa and Torchwood. Now, when swiveled around, he knew exactly how to keep his face open and neutral. “Have I?”
“You’ve been looking into the old personnel files.” Jack didn’t seem suspicious, only curious.
“Oh, yes.” Ianto once again edited the truth, leaving out the uncomfortable parts. “I found a few strange items in the archives. I’ve been trying to reorganize it, as you know, and those items have been bothering me. I don’t think they belong with the other artifacts-they’re not alien and I think they might have been left there by mistake. They’re more like personal possessions. I was just curious as to who left them there.”
“Found anything?” Jack began twirling his pencil through his fingers as if he weren’t really aware that he did it. Ianto watched it as it spun back and forth along Jack’s knuckles, like a poker dealer with a card. He felt mildly hypnotized as he stared, then wrenched his gaze back to Jack’s face.
Ianto made no attempt to disguise his frustration. “Not a thing.”
“Well, I’ve been an employee longer here than anyone else.” There was a trace of something bitter in Jack’s voice. “Maybe if you describe it to me-”
And then his mobile began to ring. The vibration mode kicked in, making it skitter across the desk.
Jack tilted his head, appearing to consider something. “I can’t think of anyone that would leave stuff lying around in the archives… not offhand, anyway.” He flashed a grin. “To be honest, most people stayed away from that area until you came along. Too much work, too little excitement.”
Ianto pointed one finger at the desk. “Are you going to answer that?”
Jack picked it up and let out a heavy breath, as if to keep himself from throwing the mobile against a wall. “Why don’t you check the inventory?” Jack suggested. “Maybe those things really are part of the archive.” Then he flipped the phone open. “This is Captain Harkness.”
Ianto drifted out of the office, giving Jack an encouraging thumbs-up as he did so.
***
When Ianto finally got around to checking the inventory list, it was around noon of the next day. Gwen was working at her station, mouth set in a grim line. A new victim of the rift had appeared that morning and while Jack went to settle in the patient at Flat Holm. It was emotionally draining work and Ianto had offered to help, but Jack had said he would be fine and Gwen had taken it upon herself to enter the new patient’s records into the mainframe. Since she had discovered Flat Holm, she’d helped whenever needed, and done it quietly and without questions. It was a strange reversal from her usual nature-she wasn’t motivated to find solutions or interfere. She simply accepted Jack’s orders and never met the captain’s eyes until the Flat Holm business was taken care of. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was penance. Ianto felt a twinge himself-after all, it had been his doing that had clued her in. Although she had vehemently said she didn’t blame him, he had still been the one that had taken a bit of her innocence away. So when this new patient showed up, she’d volunteered to do the paperwork and waved Ianto’s offers to help away.
Ianto found himself back in the archives, flipping through the inventory list.
“Book, book, book,” Ianto murmured to himself, scanning the content pages. When his eyes fell upon the book’s title, he felt a jolt of excitement. So the book had been an official part of the archives. That would make it easier. Archivists were supposed to leave reports on each item they logged, including a physical description of it, the date it was found and any other relevant details. But something nagged at him as he flipped through the pages to find the correct one. What were an Oscar Wilde book and death note doing in the archives? It looked as if he was finally going to get his answer.
Date: 1/23/53
Found Items: The Picture of Dorian Gray & 1 personal letter
The two items were found amidst debris and several broken technological devices that were obviously not from this time period; they are mostly likely from some future time, or alternative reality. The book is “The Picture of Dorian Gray,” by Oscar Wilde. Tucked into its pages is a letter from one Torchwood employee to another. There is no relevant date or even last names to give us any clue as to when or where the book came from. We have already searched all other Torchwood outposts to see if any of them have employees with these names, but nothing has matched up. Because it’s obviously not dangerous or useful, we’re just going to leave it in the archives. We have reprinted the contents of the letter here, in case the original becomes damaged in some way.
I’m sorry. I know by the time you find this note, I will probably be dead. I just want you to know that I love you. So much so that I could not allow you to put yourself in danger. DO NOT BLAME YOURSELF. These years working at Torchwood have been among the best I’ve ever known. Most people spend their lives just existing, not really aware of the world. I can die knowing that I have lived every one of these years. As far as final requests, say goodbye to the twins for me, and to Gwen, and don’t let my coffee machine rust.
And take care of yourself, Jack. Please, just take care.
-Ianto
The inventory list tumbled to the ground, out of Ianto’s numb fingers.
***
Part Two