dameruth: "Glass Houses" (Ten/Jack) [PG]
Title: "Glass Houses"
Author: dameruth
Challenge: "Crossing the Lines"
Rating: PG
Spoilers/warnings: Slight ones for S1 of "Torchwood," I guess.
Summary: Ianto finds out something unexpected and unwelcome about Jack's personal life.
EDIT -- decided to bump this one up to a PG, after due consideration. Maybe it needs it, maybe it don't.
A/N - For some reason, I seem to come up with yin/yang funny/angsty paired story ideas for this comm. I've already posted the humor for this challenge -- time for the angst.
Had a terrible time coming up with a title for this one; also, it expanded into a much longer scene than I expected, since the image was such a tight, compact one in my head. Hopefully I haven't overwritten it.
"Glass Houses"
Ianto leaned back in the shadows of his booth, a cup of inferior coffee he didn’t intend to drink cooling untouched in front of him. He wasn’t sure if he was glad or sorry now for the decision he'd made after Jack had suddenly swept through the Hub near the end of the workday, and informed his team - rather breezily - that he was stepping out for a few hours, and they could all go home early. Something in his tone of voice struck Ianto as odd, and, telling himself it was for the greater good of Torchwood, he’d decided to find out exactly what his boss was up to.
Using every ounce of his skill, including, ironically, tricks Jack had taught him, Ianto followed Jack into the pub unnoticed, and settled down to watch his quarry. What he saw made his blood run cold and hot at the same time.
Jack was seated at a corner table with a man Ianto recognized immediately, even though he’d never met him in the flesh. The Doctor. Ianto had seen the surveillance tapes, after Canary Wharf; at the time, he’d been occupied with trying to protect his section from the Cybermen, and hadn’t crossed paths with the infamous alien, even though they’d been in the same building.
There was no mistaking the slender, brown-clad figure with his distinctive shock of untidy hair. It was only one of many bodies and faces the Doctor had worn over the years, Ianto knew. The Doctor had been around a long, long time, and changed seemingly without rhyme or reason - though much of that was supposedly due to his living outside the normal flow of time. All the same, whatever his appearance, the Doctor was the enemy - the very reason Torchwood had been founded, and the first and greatest threat they were supposed to guard England against.
And Jack was having drinks with him.
It wasn’t the wary meeting of two adversaries, either, carefully arranged in a public place for the security of both sides. They were chatting amiably, their expressions and body language relaxed, even friendly. Maybe more than friendly. The way Jack inclined his body towards the Doctor, across the small table, and the way he spoke with such animation, using his hands extravagantly and grinning more freely than Ianto had ever seen before, was . . . instructive.
For his part, the Doctor slouched comfortably in his chair, laughing and chattering easily, more than a match for Jack, who overpowered most conversations with his larger-than-life personality.
Ianto clenched his fists unconsciously, his spine taut and his features perfectly expressionless, concealing the turmoil within him.
Captain Harkness, his trusted leader, was consorting in secret with an enemy.
Jack, his sometime lover, was grinning at another man in a way Ianto had never seen before.
The two betrayals collided in his heart, fusing and blending until Ianto couldn’t separate one from another; they burned as a single, sullen, aching ember sitting just on top of his diaphragm.
He’d known Jack had personal agendas besides Torchwood’s stated purposes, and he hadn’t expected sentimental fidelity from someone with Jack’s roving eye. But this secret, sneaking encounter somehow took all of Ianto’s objective knowledge and cut it to ribbons, leaving only irrational hurt, rapidly maturing into anger.
Jack and the Doctor subsided after their last outburst of laughter, and then they leaned in for quieter conversation. Ianto could hear Jack’s familiar voice clearly, though he couldn’t make out what was being said.
They seemed to reach a decision, and the Doctor made a gesture as if intending to rise from his chair, but Jack stood first. In doing so, he rested his hand briefly on the Doctor’s wrist, obviously telling him to stay put as Jack went to settle the bill. The touch was casual, and spoke of long familiarity.
Waiting for Jack, the Doctor slumped back in his chair and glanced lanced idly around the room, a faint, benevolent smile on his face. His glaze slid over and past Ianto, mostly hidden in the shadows, without recognition - they’d never met, after all. Ianto, watching through his eyelashes as he fiddled with his cup, searched for signs of alienness in the Doctor, but he saw nothing untoward. Just a lanky, rumpled, youngish man with fine, sharp facial features. He didn’t seem like an Earth-shattering threat - however, Ianto had seen enough at Torchwood not to judge by appearances. And he might not have met the Doctor in London, but he’d seen what was left behind.
Jack returned to the table, and the Doctor grinned in greeting, standing and slipping into his long coat - also brown - before heading out the door with Jack. Ianto was close behind them, his heartbeat speeding.
Torchwood regulations were very clear: if the Doctor was ever encountered, he was to be detained, at whatever cost necessary. Ianto knew he should be calling for backup at that very moment . . . but Torchwood Three was so small; not even Torchwood One at the height of its power had been able to survive the Doctor’s presence. True, the invading Cybermen and Daleks had caused most of the damage, but trouble followed in the Doctor’s wake like seagulls after a garbage scow. What might be following him, even now? What would he bring to the Hub if he were taken captive?
And with Jack so very clearly siding against regulations, another mutiny would be necessary - something none of the others would have much of a stomach for, given the aftermath of the Rift’s disastrous opening. Even now, Ianto didn’t cherish the idea himself.
So, with no clear idea of what he was going to do, he followed.
His quarry remained oblivious, two tall men walking easily in step, presenting remarkably similar silhouettes in their long coats. It was full dark now, and the streets gleamed and dripped with recent rain. Jack and the Doctor were still talking as they walked. Once, Ianto caught a glimpse of Jack’s profile and the steaming puff of his breath as he turned to laugh at something the Doctor had said.
After a few blocks, the two men unexpectedly turned a corner into an alleyway, moving together with practiced precision; the movement was so smooth and untelegraphed, Ianto almost lost them, even despite his best attention.
The alley was mostly dark, though the darkness was occasionally streaked with reflected light. Just at the far edge of one of the rare splashes of illumination, Jack and the Doctor drew to a halt. Ianto could just make out the tall, oblong shape nestled in the shadows, delineated somewhat by the faintly-glowing POLICE BOX sign above the doors, and the single pale light set at the peak of the roof. The Doctor’s ship.
The Doctor turned to rest his back against the closed doors of the ship, facing Jack, so that Ianto could see his face clearly. The Doctor’s expression was relaxed and amused. His lips curved in a faint smile, and his eyes were half-lidded as he studied Jack. Those lazy eyes flicked up to glance over Jack’s shoulder for a moment - a casual, reflexive gesture.
Even though Ianto had thought himself hidden in a pool of deep shadow, the Doctor’s eyes widened, startled and wary. Jack, obviously seeing the change in the other man’s expression, spun around, already reaching for his gun.
Ianto had the drop on him; once discovered, he knew running wasn’t an option. He had his own gun at the ready, and stepped into the light before Jack could draw. He kept his aim firmly centered on the Doctor. Cathartic as it might be, shooting his boss would be less than useless in the end and he felt the intimidation and bargaining value of targeting the Doctor would be greater.
Jack recognized him, and exhaled sharply. “Ianto . . .” he began in greeting and recognition, sounding both relieved and exasperated. He faltered when Ianto made no move to put up his weapon, apparently reading something unexpected in the younger man’s face and stance. “. . . what are you doing here?” he finished, his voice and movements careful and constrained.
“Following you,” Ianto said, in his most dead-calm voice. “Interesting choice of company for the Director of Torchwood, I must say.”
Ianto could see Jack’s mind working, lightning fast. “Ianto,” he began again, but was cut off.
“Ianto Jones, isn’t it?” the Doctor asked, addressing him directly, sounding as relaxed and pleasant as if they were preparing to sit down to tea together. He was standing very still, hands carefully visible, but he appeared superficially unafraid, even with a gun pointed directly at him. “We haven’t met, but Jack’s mentioned you. I’m the Doctor . . .”
“I know,” Ianto said, his voice harsher than he’d intended. “I was at Canary Wharf.”
“Ah. Yes.” A shadow crossed the Doctor’s youthful features, adding years to his apparent age and giving Ianto his first glimpse of the alien within. “I’m sorry.”
Ianto took a deep breath. “It’s my duty to arrest you,” he stated, though arrest probably wasn’t quite the proper term. “You’re a threat to the country’s safety.”
Jack started to speak, but a flickering glance from the Doctor’s dark eyes stilled him.
That . . . was telling, Ianto couldn’t help but think.
The dark, calm gaze shifted back to Ianto, and, incredibly, the Doctor smiled. The expression was appealing, warm and apparently genuine. It was a smile that invited trust and compliance, and it frightened Ianto more than any threat could have done - all the more so because he found some small part of his mind responding to it.
“I’m afraid the rumors of my dangerousness have been greatly exaggerated,” the Doctor told him, lightly and conversationally. Without hurrying, he stepped forward, toward Ianto. “Mostly I’m a victim of bad timing. Or good timing, if you want to look at it in a different light.” Another step.
Ianto’s grip on his gun tightened infinitesimally, and he swallowed, but he found himself caught by the Doctor’s friendly, pleasant voice - a light tenor with a faint hint of some nearly hidden burr. He should have called a warning, told the Doctor to stay where he was - but instead, he listened.
“I usually end up lending a hand where it’s needed, so my name gets mixed with all sorts of unpleasant events, like Canary Wharf, but it’s not usually me that starts things. Doesn’t help with the misunderstandings, mind - people keep thinking it’s my fault somehow. All the way back to that werewolf and Queen Victoria, and the founding of Torchwood . . .” The Doctor was halfway across the patch of light now, about ten feet from Ianto.
He looked, so . . . ordinary. His artfully-mussed hair fell raggedly across his forehead, and Ianto could pick out the details of his features, the faint beard-shadow along his jaw, and the spatter of freckles across his nose and cheekbones.
Ianto felt a shudder of uncertainty. Was this man the threat he’d always believed?
The Doctor paused for a moment, and cocked his head, as if trying to gauge Ianto’s state of mind before approaching any further. The gesture was alert, and intelligent, but something about it sent a second shiver through Ianto - it reminded him subliminally of a Weevil at bay: something human-shaped but not human. It was jarring, and shook him back to himself.
The spell broken, Ianto found his voice, which was rough but serviceable. “Stop right there!” he said, warning, and the Doctor froze obediently. So did Jack.
Shocked, Ianto realized his attention had been focused so tightly on the Doctor he hadn’t noticed his boss had been advancing with the Doctor, slightly behind and to one side of him. Jack was treating Ianto like a threat, siding with the Doctor against him.
A wave of scalding anger swept through Ianto. “S’what they all say, isn’t it? ‘Not my fault.’ Tell that to everyone who died in London.” And everyone who didn’t, his heart whispered in a silent coda.
“I’m sorry about Lisa,” the Doctor replied, quietly and sincerely, as if he’d read Ianto’s mind. Ianto saw Jack twitch slightly, in the corner of his vision, but all of his attention tunneled down on the Doctor, who’d dared to mention that name.
The alien’s face was sad and grim now, all the lightness gone, and he looked oh-so-human again.
“I lost someone at Canary Wharf, too,” the Doctor told him, almost in a whisper, his voice rougher, the burr more pronounced. “But not like that. If I could have done anything, I would have.”
Ianto stared into those drowning-dark eyes, and the angle of the light caught the shimmer of extra moisture, like tears unshed. Then Ianto realized those dark eyes were much closer than they’d been. The Doctor was nearly within arm’s length of him now.
“They call me the Storm,” the Doctor continued, rather sadly, his eyes flickering back and forth with faint, tiny movements as he studied Ianto’s face as if searching for something. “Wherever I go, it seems like chaos follows. But that’s not what I want. It’s not my goal.”
He took a half-step forward, and a trick of the slanting light caused the dark irises of his eyes to be illuminated as if from within. He was close enough Ianto could clearly see the rich, brown color of them, and the pattern of silver and gold filaments buried in the darkness - not just radial lines, as in a human’s eyes, but a dizzying web of lines and circles, concentric, overlapping, complex . . . alien.
Ianto’s skin crawled, and he didn’t know if he wanted to step forward to meet the Doctor, or turn and run. It almost felt like attempted telepathic control, but he’d had enough training to know that it wasn’t. It was simply the force of this strange, ancient personality before him, demanding and receiving his full attention.
The Doctor cocked his head again, that same, inhuman gesture, and gazed steadily into his face with those eerie, luminous eyes.
"Ianto Jones,” he said, solemnly, like a man taking an oath before a multitude, “I’m not here today to interfere in any aspect of your life in this time and place. Just a quick drink with an old friend, and then I’m moving on. Do you believe me?”
“Yes,” Ianto breathed, and meant it.
“Then give me the gun.”
Knowing he was lost, Ianto did as he was told, flicking on the safety with his thumb and reversing his hold so he could pass the pistol grip-first to the Doctor.
The Doctor took it from him without once looking at it or breaking eye contact with Ianto. He passed the gun to Jack, who stood at his shoulder. From the corner of his eye, Ianto could see Jack quickly run through the automatic checks the Doctor hadn’t before he pocketed the weapon.
The Doctor’s gaze flickered over Ianto’s face again, and he smiled, faintly. He exhaled and settled his shoulders back into a more relaxed pose; the fractional movement shifted him in relation to the light, so that his eyes went dark and ordinary again. The change was amazing -- he could have passed for human again, just like that.
Jack stood at the Doctor’s shoulder in a familiar pose - Ianto’s own, when he was acting as Jack’s second, he realized. Ianto had the momentary, dizzying sense of seeing something just beyond his understanding, a relationship that extended through spans of time and space he couldn’t quite comprehend.
Then the Doctor grinned, displaying a dazzling array of teeth, and clapped a hand onto Ianto’s shoulder in a friendly gesture. “Good man,” he said, as if Ianto had just done some difficult favor for him. The Doctor’s hand gripped briefly, then released him.
The Doctor turned briskly to Jack. “Right! I’ll be off then, Captain. Until the next time . . .”
Jack nodded, giving the Doctor a half-smile, and a faint gesture somewhere between a salute and a wave.
The Doctor turned on his heel in a swirl of coattails that made even Jack’s exits look subdued by comparison, and strode quickly to his ship. He slipped through the door, and a moment later a swishing, grinding noise began. The ship’s lights flared and dimmed in time to the sound, until it had faded completely from sight.
Jack and Ianto watched in silence until it was gone, and then Jack turned to Ianto, his brows drawn down and his jaw tight.
“You followed me,” he said, bluntly.
“I did, sir,” Ianto told him, keeping his voice as level as he could. Still, even he could hear the faint edge of accusation that crept in.
Jack’s eyes narrowed, but he seemed to be considering his response, rather than snapping out in anger as he usually did in response to the slightest whiff of insubordination. “Why?” he asked.
Ianto answered honestly. “Your manner was odd, and I was . . . suspicious.”
“You were, huh?” Jack asked, voice coolly neutral.
“Wasn’t I right to be?” Ianto asked, with grim defiance. “Considering who you were meeting . . .?”
“Do you really think it’s a good idea for you to be throwing stones, Ianto?” Jack shot back, the most direct reference he’d made to Lisa since that terrible night months ago.
Ianto sucked in his breath, in hurt and protest, but before he could speak, Jack glanced down, looking suddenly shamefaced. When he looked back up, most of the anger was gone from him.
“Sorry,” he said, sounding like an unconscious echo of the departed Doctor. “I guess . . . there are some things I should tell you about, so you understand - things about Torchwood, and the Doctor. And me.” He paused, and the faint patter of resuming rain was audible over the faint city noises penetrating the alleyway. A moment later, both of them could feel the raindrops beginning to strike, with quickly-increasing force.
Jack grimaced. “Although,” he continued, “if it’s all right with you, I’d like to shift to somewhere dry.” He raised his eyebrows questioningly.
Slowly, Ianto nodded. “That seems reasonable,” he admitted.
Jack gave him a faint grin. “Good. C’mon,” he said, and turned to leave.
Ianto followed at his shoulder, a half-step behind.
Author: dameruth
Challenge: "Crossing the Lines"
Rating: PG
Spoilers/warnings: Slight ones for S1 of "Torchwood," I guess.
Summary: Ianto finds out something unexpected and unwelcome about Jack's personal life.
EDIT -- decided to bump this one up to a PG, after due consideration. Maybe it needs it, maybe it don't.
A/N - For some reason, I seem to come up with yin/yang funny/angsty paired story ideas for this comm. I've already posted the humor for this challenge -- time for the angst.
Had a terrible time coming up with a title for this one; also, it expanded into a much longer scene than I expected, since the image was such a tight, compact one in my head. Hopefully I haven't overwritten it.
"Glass Houses"
Ianto leaned back in the shadows of his booth, a cup of inferior coffee he didn’t intend to drink cooling untouched in front of him. He wasn’t sure if he was glad or sorry now for the decision he'd made after Jack had suddenly swept through the Hub near the end of the workday, and informed his team - rather breezily - that he was stepping out for a few hours, and they could all go home early. Something in his tone of voice struck Ianto as odd, and, telling himself it was for the greater good of Torchwood, he’d decided to find out exactly what his boss was up to.
Using every ounce of his skill, including, ironically, tricks Jack had taught him, Ianto followed Jack into the pub unnoticed, and settled down to watch his quarry. What he saw made his blood run cold and hot at the same time.
Jack was seated at a corner table with a man Ianto recognized immediately, even though he’d never met him in the flesh. The Doctor. Ianto had seen the surveillance tapes, after Canary Wharf; at the time, he’d been occupied with trying to protect his section from the Cybermen, and hadn’t crossed paths with the infamous alien, even though they’d been in the same building.
There was no mistaking the slender, brown-clad figure with his distinctive shock of untidy hair. It was only one of many bodies and faces the Doctor had worn over the years, Ianto knew. The Doctor had been around a long, long time, and changed seemingly without rhyme or reason - though much of that was supposedly due to his living outside the normal flow of time. All the same, whatever his appearance, the Doctor was the enemy - the very reason Torchwood had been founded, and the first and greatest threat they were supposed to guard England against.
And Jack was having drinks with him.
It wasn’t the wary meeting of two adversaries, either, carefully arranged in a public place for the security of both sides. They were chatting amiably, their expressions and body language relaxed, even friendly. Maybe more than friendly. The way Jack inclined his body towards the Doctor, across the small table, and the way he spoke with such animation, using his hands extravagantly and grinning more freely than Ianto had ever seen before, was . . . instructive.
For his part, the Doctor slouched comfortably in his chair, laughing and chattering easily, more than a match for Jack, who overpowered most conversations with his larger-than-life personality.
Ianto clenched his fists unconsciously, his spine taut and his features perfectly expressionless, concealing the turmoil within him.
Captain Harkness, his trusted leader, was consorting in secret with an enemy.
Jack, his sometime lover, was grinning at another man in a way Ianto had never seen before.
The two betrayals collided in his heart, fusing and blending until Ianto couldn’t separate one from another; they burned as a single, sullen, aching ember sitting just on top of his diaphragm.
He’d known Jack had personal agendas besides Torchwood’s stated purposes, and he hadn’t expected sentimental fidelity from someone with Jack’s roving eye. But this secret, sneaking encounter somehow took all of Ianto’s objective knowledge and cut it to ribbons, leaving only irrational hurt, rapidly maturing into anger.
Jack and the Doctor subsided after their last outburst of laughter, and then they leaned in for quieter conversation. Ianto could hear Jack’s familiar voice clearly, though he couldn’t make out what was being said.
They seemed to reach a decision, and the Doctor made a gesture as if intending to rise from his chair, but Jack stood first. In doing so, he rested his hand briefly on the Doctor’s wrist, obviously telling him to stay put as Jack went to settle the bill. The touch was casual, and spoke of long familiarity.
Waiting for Jack, the Doctor slumped back in his chair and glanced lanced idly around the room, a faint, benevolent smile on his face. His glaze slid over and past Ianto, mostly hidden in the shadows, without recognition - they’d never met, after all. Ianto, watching through his eyelashes as he fiddled with his cup, searched for signs of alienness in the Doctor, but he saw nothing untoward. Just a lanky, rumpled, youngish man with fine, sharp facial features. He didn’t seem like an Earth-shattering threat - however, Ianto had seen enough at Torchwood not to judge by appearances. And he might not have met the Doctor in London, but he’d seen what was left behind.
Jack returned to the table, and the Doctor grinned in greeting, standing and slipping into his long coat - also brown - before heading out the door with Jack. Ianto was close behind them, his heartbeat speeding.
Torchwood regulations were very clear: if the Doctor was ever encountered, he was to be detained, at whatever cost necessary. Ianto knew he should be calling for backup at that very moment . . . but Torchwood Three was so small; not even Torchwood One at the height of its power had been able to survive the Doctor’s presence. True, the invading Cybermen and Daleks had caused most of the damage, but trouble followed in the Doctor’s wake like seagulls after a garbage scow. What might be following him, even now? What would he bring to the Hub if he were taken captive?
And with Jack so very clearly siding against regulations, another mutiny would be necessary - something none of the others would have much of a stomach for, given the aftermath of the Rift’s disastrous opening. Even now, Ianto didn’t cherish the idea himself.
So, with no clear idea of what he was going to do, he followed.
His quarry remained oblivious, two tall men walking easily in step, presenting remarkably similar silhouettes in their long coats. It was full dark now, and the streets gleamed and dripped with recent rain. Jack and the Doctor were still talking as they walked. Once, Ianto caught a glimpse of Jack’s profile and the steaming puff of his breath as he turned to laugh at something the Doctor had said.
After a few blocks, the two men unexpectedly turned a corner into an alleyway, moving together with practiced precision; the movement was so smooth and untelegraphed, Ianto almost lost them, even despite his best attention.
The alley was mostly dark, though the darkness was occasionally streaked with reflected light. Just at the far edge of one of the rare splashes of illumination, Jack and the Doctor drew to a halt. Ianto could just make out the tall, oblong shape nestled in the shadows, delineated somewhat by the faintly-glowing POLICE BOX sign above the doors, and the single pale light set at the peak of the roof. The Doctor’s ship.
The Doctor turned to rest his back against the closed doors of the ship, facing Jack, so that Ianto could see his face clearly. The Doctor’s expression was relaxed and amused. His lips curved in a faint smile, and his eyes were half-lidded as he studied Jack. Those lazy eyes flicked up to glance over Jack’s shoulder for a moment - a casual, reflexive gesture.
Even though Ianto had thought himself hidden in a pool of deep shadow, the Doctor’s eyes widened, startled and wary. Jack, obviously seeing the change in the other man’s expression, spun around, already reaching for his gun.
Ianto had the drop on him; once discovered, he knew running wasn’t an option. He had his own gun at the ready, and stepped into the light before Jack could draw. He kept his aim firmly centered on the Doctor. Cathartic as it might be, shooting his boss would be less than useless in the end and he felt the intimidation and bargaining value of targeting the Doctor would be greater.
Jack recognized him, and exhaled sharply. “Ianto . . .” he began in greeting and recognition, sounding both relieved and exasperated. He faltered when Ianto made no move to put up his weapon, apparently reading something unexpected in the younger man’s face and stance. “. . . what are you doing here?” he finished, his voice and movements careful and constrained.
“Following you,” Ianto said, in his most dead-calm voice. “Interesting choice of company for the Director of Torchwood, I must say.”
Ianto could see Jack’s mind working, lightning fast. “Ianto,” he began again, but was cut off.
“Ianto Jones, isn’t it?” the Doctor asked, addressing him directly, sounding as relaxed and pleasant as if they were preparing to sit down to tea together. He was standing very still, hands carefully visible, but he appeared superficially unafraid, even with a gun pointed directly at him. “We haven’t met, but Jack’s mentioned you. I’m the Doctor . . .”
“I know,” Ianto said, his voice harsher than he’d intended. “I was at Canary Wharf.”
“Ah. Yes.” A shadow crossed the Doctor’s youthful features, adding years to his apparent age and giving Ianto his first glimpse of the alien within. “I’m sorry.”
Ianto took a deep breath. “It’s my duty to arrest you,” he stated, though arrest probably wasn’t quite the proper term. “You’re a threat to the country’s safety.”
Jack started to speak, but a flickering glance from the Doctor’s dark eyes stilled him.
That . . . was telling, Ianto couldn’t help but think.
The dark, calm gaze shifted back to Ianto, and, incredibly, the Doctor smiled. The expression was appealing, warm and apparently genuine. It was a smile that invited trust and compliance, and it frightened Ianto more than any threat could have done - all the more so because he found some small part of his mind responding to it.
“I’m afraid the rumors of my dangerousness have been greatly exaggerated,” the Doctor told him, lightly and conversationally. Without hurrying, he stepped forward, toward Ianto. “Mostly I’m a victim of bad timing. Or good timing, if you want to look at it in a different light.” Another step.
Ianto’s grip on his gun tightened infinitesimally, and he swallowed, but he found himself caught by the Doctor’s friendly, pleasant voice - a light tenor with a faint hint of some nearly hidden burr. He should have called a warning, told the Doctor to stay where he was - but instead, he listened.
“I usually end up lending a hand where it’s needed, so my name gets mixed with all sorts of unpleasant events, like Canary Wharf, but it’s not usually me that starts things. Doesn’t help with the misunderstandings, mind - people keep thinking it’s my fault somehow. All the way back to that werewolf and Queen Victoria, and the founding of Torchwood . . .” The Doctor was halfway across the patch of light now, about ten feet from Ianto.
He looked, so . . . ordinary. His artfully-mussed hair fell raggedly across his forehead, and Ianto could pick out the details of his features, the faint beard-shadow along his jaw, and the spatter of freckles across his nose and cheekbones.
Ianto felt a shudder of uncertainty. Was this man the threat he’d always believed?
The Doctor paused for a moment, and cocked his head, as if trying to gauge Ianto’s state of mind before approaching any further. The gesture was alert, and intelligent, but something about it sent a second shiver through Ianto - it reminded him subliminally of a Weevil at bay: something human-shaped but not human. It was jarring, and shook him back to himself.
The spell broken, Ianto found his voice, which was rough but serviceable. “Stop right there!” he said, warning, and the Doctor froze obediently. So did Jack.
Shocked, Ianto realized his attention had been focused so tightly on the Doctor he hadn’t noticed his boss had been advancing with the Doctor, slightly behind and to one side of him. Jack was treating Ianto like a threat, siding with the Doctor against him.
A wave of scalding anger swept through Ianto. “S’what they all say, isn’t it? ‘Not my fault.’ Tell that to everyone who died in London.” And everyone who didn’t, his heart whispered in a silent coda.
“I’m sorry about Lisa,” the Doctor replied, quietly and sincerely, as if he’d read Ianto’s mind. Ianto saw Jack twitch slightly, in the corner of his vision, but all of his attention tunneled down on the Doctor, who’d dared to mention that name.
The alien’s face was sad and grim now, all the lightness gone, and he looked oh-so-human again.
“I lost someone at Canary Wharf, too,” the Doctor told him, almost in a whisper, his voice rougher, the burr more pronounced. “But not like that. If I could have done anything, I would have.”
Ianto stared into those drowning-dark eyes, and the angle of the light caught the shimmer of extra moisture, like tears unshed. Then Ianto realized those dark eyes were much closer than they’d been. The Doctor was nearly within arm’s length of him now.
“They call me the Storm,” the Doctor continued, rather sadly, his eyes flickering back and forth with faint, tiny movements as he studied Ianto’s face as if searching for something. “Wherever I go, it seems like chaos follows. But that’s not what I want. It’s not my goal.”
He took a half-step forward, and a trick of the slanting light caused the dark irises of his eyes to be illuminated as if from within. He was close enough Ianto could clearly see the rich, brown color of them, and the pattern of silver and gold filaments buried in the darkness - not just radial lines, as in a human’s eyes, but a dizzying web of lines and circles, concentric, overlapping, complex . . . alien.
Ianto’s skin crawled, and he didn’t know if he wanted to step forward to meet the Doctor, or turn and run. It almost felt like attempted telepathic control, but he’d had enough training to know that it wasn’t. It was simply the force of this strange, ancient personality before him, demanding and receiving his full attention.
The Doctor cocked his head again, that same, inhuman gesture, and gazed steadily into his face with those eerie, luminous eyes.
"Ianto Jones,” he said, solemnly, like a man taking an oath before a multitude, “I’m not here today to interfere in any aspect of your life in this time and place. Just a quick drink with an old friend, and then I’m moving on. Do you believe me?”
“Yes,” Ianto breathed, and meant it.
“Then give me the gun.”
Knowing he was lost, Ianto did as he was told, flicking on the safety with his thumb and reversing his hold so he could pass the pistol grip-first to the Doctor.
The Doctor took it from him without once looking at it or breaking eye contact with Ianto. He passed the gun to Jack, who stood at his shoulder. From the corner of his eye, Ianto could see Jack quickly run through the automatic checks the Doctor hadn’t before he pocketed the weapon.
The Doctor’s gaze flickered over Ianto’s face again, and he smiled, faintly. He exhaled and settled his shoulders back into a more relaxed pose; the fractional movement shifted him in relation to the light, so that his eyes went dark and ordinary again. The change was amazing -- he could have passed for human again, just like that.
Jack stood at the Doctor’s shoulder in a familiar pose - Ianto’s own, when he was acting as Jack’s second, he realized. Ianto had the momentary, dizzying sense of seeing something just beyond his understanding, a relationship that extended through spans of time and space he couldn’t quite comprehend.
Then the Doctor grinned, displaying a dazzling array of teeth, and clapped a hand onto Ianto’s shoulder in a friendly gesture. “Good man,” he said, as if Ianto had just done some difficult favor for him. The Doctor’s hand gripped briefly, then released him.
The Doctor turned briskly to Jack. “Right! I’ll be off then, Captain. Until the next time . . .”
Jack nodded, giving the Doctor a half-smile, and a faint gesture somewhere between a salute and a wave.
The Doctor turned on his heel in a swirl of coattails that made even Jack’s exits look subdued by comparison, and strode quickly to his ship. He slipped through the door, and a moment later a swishing, grinding noise began. The ship’s lights flared and dimmed in time to the sound, until it had faded completely from sight.
Jack and Ianto watched in silence until it was gone, and then Jack turned to Ianto, his brows drawn down and his jaw tight.
“You followed me,” he said, bluntly.
“I did, sir,” Ianto told him, keeping his voice as level as he could. Still, even he could hear the faint edge of accusation that crept in.
Jack’s eyes narrowed, but he seemed to be considering his response, rather than snapping out in anger as he usually did in response to the slightest whiff of insubordination. “Why?” he asked.
Ianto answered honestly. “Your manner was odd, and I was . . . suspicious.”
“You were, huh?” Jack asked, voice coolly neutral.
“Wasn’t I right to be?” Ianto asked, with grim defiance. “Considering who you were meeting . . .?”
“Do you really think it’s a good idea for you to be throwing stones, Ianto?” Jack shot back, the most direct reference he’d made to Lisa since that terrible night months ago.
Ianto sucked in his breath, in hurt and protest, but before he could speak, Jack glanced down, looking suddenly shamefaced. When he looked back up, most of the anger was gone from him.
“Sorry,” he said, sounding like an unconscious echo of the departed Doctor. “I guess . . . there are some things I should tell you about, so you understand - things about Torchwood, and the Doctor. And me.” He paused, and the faint patter of resuming rain was audible over the faint city noises penetrating the alleyway. A moment later, both of them could feel the raindrops beginning to strike, with quickly-increasing force.
Jack grimaced. “Although,” he continued, “if it’s all right with you, I’d like to shift to somewhere dry.” He raised his eyebrows questioningly.
Slowly, Ianto nodded. “That seems reasonable,” he admitted.
Jack gave him a faint grin. “Good. C’mon,” he said, and turned to leave.
Ianto followed at his shoulder, a half-step behind.