Impressions (Chapter 3)
Rating: PG (may eventually be NC-17)
Warnings: Ridiculousness, fluff, canon character death in a non-canon way.
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of their respective owners. I am in no way associated with the creators, and no copyright infringement is intended.
A/N: Happy birthday to Mr. Jones! Have some underground-alien-crime-lord-psychic!Ianto to celebrate! :P
Chapter Three
It is, in the end, astonishingly simple to carry out his plan. Ianto’s network more than provides the information he needs, whispers of an attempted invasion repeated over and over if one knows the right places to listen.
Ianto takes those whispers, twists them together, wrings out the truth, and then leaves all of his information about the impending threat in a note he pins to the door of the Tourist Office.
It’s easy enough to ensure that he isn’t seen, but whoever enters that way will see the note first thing. There's also little reason to hide it or put it in code-anyone not in the know is likely to think it a prank or a joke.
Ianto ensures, with a few carefully placed words, that Captain Harkness won't.
(He’s not entirely sure why he’s doing this, except that Captain Harkness had looked so absolutely, understatedly devastated when he came in, and Ianto doesn’t ever want to see the man like that again.)
(Captain Jack Harkness should always be smiling; Ianto doesn’t even have to use his ability to know that much.)
*.~.*.~.*
Perhaps it is his re-involvement with Torchwood, but the nightmares have returned full-force since Ianto encountered the Captain.
There is a long corridor in his dreams, a hallway with no end and far too many rooms on either side. Each one houses a child who will grow up to be a man or woman, knowing only Torchwood and what they are ordered to do.
A lucky few, like Ianto, might manage to develop a will of their own.
The majority will not.
In this, at least, Ianto’s memory is a curse. He knows them all by sight, knows all of their faces and most of their stories, and he’ll never forget.
Someone should remember them, though.
No one else will, so it falls to him, even though he is in a time when none of them yet exist.
Their stories are hardly singular, as much as it pains him.
They will always exist, as long as Torchwood Four does.
Ianto wishes, with all his heart and soul, that he could change that.
*.~.*.~.*
Lisa had never been like the rest of them in Torchwood Four. She hadn’t been born half alien, but changed, the only survivor of a Cyberman attack that left her partially converted.
Torchwood Four had taken her immediately, gleeful and greedy and destructively curious about what kept her mostly human when most others gave in to the programming within hours. But Lisa Hallett defied categorization.
She always did, Ianto knew.
Because of his unique talent, the Handlers-the caretakers and minders and scientists of Four-brought Ianto to her room every day, wanting to know how far the conversion had progressed. Every day, they asked the same question, and Ianto looked at the sweet, beautiful woman strapped to the conversion unit, eternally in pain, and gave them the same answer.
“Human,” he always said. “She’s human.”
Because she was, even when the programming was taking her over.
Even when she was fading by the hour.
Even when there was only a tiny spark of Lisa remaining.
It didn't matter, because she knew him. She saw him and smiled at him and never showed the pain that ate at her, the fear that overwhelmed her.
And Ianto was just the kind of hopeless fool to love her for it.
So he never said anything about the advancing cyber-conversion, worked on his own to find a cure, because Torchwood Four had no cure, only experiments to perform and twisted curiosities to satisfy.
He could hardly be bothered to care when the inevitable came to pass. Maybe it was partly selfish of him to feel so, because he gained his freedom from it, but his freedom came at a high cost.
Lisa died, and she took far too many with her.
One fully converted Cyberwoman was nearly enough to topple Torchwood Four, and Ianto walked out of the flaming rubble only to be taken by the Rift.
Perhaps there were others who escaped.
Perhaps not.
Either way, Ianto never looked back.
*.~.*.~.*
Despite the loss of one team member in an already small team, Torchwood is, as ever, resilient. Torchwood Three keeps on, and Ianto sees them shooting in and out of the Plass every few hours for the next three days. Despite their hectic, slapdash method of saving the world, they're actually fairly competent, and the invasion is averted with moments to spare.
Ianto looks up from wiping off one of the tables as they troop in, moods infinitely lighter than the last time, and feels his breath catch when Captain Harkness grins at him.
Blinding is a good word for that smile.
But Ianto is professional, always, and manages to hide the fact that his heart is whirling and flipping around in his chest. He straightens and tucks his rag into a pocket of his apron, then approaches the table the four have claimed.
(The Japanese woman looks at the pointy-faced man. She’s in love, Ianto’s gift tells him.)
(The pointy-faced man looks at the curly-haired woman. They’re having an affair, Ianto’s gift tells him.)
(The curly-haired woman doesn't look at anyone, thoughts obviously elsewhere. She’ll die soon. Forced to suicide, Ianto’s gift tells him.)
(Captain Jack Harkness looks at Ianto with a slow, appreciative sweep of eyes, and Ianto’s gift is absolutely silent.)
“What would you like today?” Ianto asks, smile professional and eyes forced away from Captain Harkness’ too-blue gaze. “Coffees all around, and an order of éclairs?”
“Sounds good,” Captain Harkness says, and Ianto’s attention is drawn back to him like a magnet finding true North. The man is still smiling, an inviting quirk of the lips, and it’s gorgeous. “Do you come with that, too?”
Ianto wants to stutter, or blush, or melt into a gooey little puddle at his feet, but manages to hold off well enough to parry with, “No, sir, and that’s harassment. Be careful, or I’ll only serve you instant.”
Harkness’ grin widens in delight, and he straightens up a little in his chair. Ianto gets the impression (not an impression, but a normal feeling) of a lion grabbing for a particularly careless gazelle. “Oh, anything but that. I’d miss those gorgeous vowels if you did anything to drive me away.”
“Oi, get a room,” the pointy-faced man snaps, leaning away from the Captain with a huff. “I just want a victory coffee, Harkness, without you turning my stomach. Is that too much to ask?”
“Apparently,” the taller woman murmurs, even though her mind is on something else. (Plans, Ianto’s gift says. She’s planning something dangerous. Pilgrim, look for Pilgrim. Beware of the glove.)
Ianto files the warning away in the back of his mind, already preparing another letter for the Tourist Office door, and offers them a smile as he goes to get their order.
Annie is watching him, wickedness in her eyes, but even Ianto’s gift shies away from that level of cunning.
He’d be wary, if he weren’t so distracted by Harkness’ bright-hot gaze resting so firmly on him.
*.~.*.~.*
It’s the first night, after that, where he doesn't dream of blood and fire and Lisa for at least part of the night.
Rather, he dreams of his mother and grandmother and a line of ancestors stretching back into infinity, all turning their heads to look at him where he stands in the line.
FOUND, they whisper, and it is vast in his ears.
CHILD OF OUR LINEAGE, YOU HAVE FOUND YOUR MATCH.
It is terrifying, if only for the fact that it isn’t terrifying at all.