What Happened to My Life? (1/34ish)
Title: What Happened to My Life?
Author: Otrame
Summary: Ianto Jones is an ordinary bloke. Maybe a little on the geeky side. Works for a big insurance company. Married, first baby on the way. So, why won’t his kidnappers believe him when he tells them that he has never, ever heard the word Torchwood before?
Rating: PG 13 for mature themes.
Pairings: Jack/Ianto
Warnings:This story contains some descriptions of torture, most of which is psychological. Occasional highly charged sexual language, frequent cursing, etc. There will be some explicit violence and occasional brief sexual scenes, though these will be not be detailed or terribly explicit. It is an AU.
Spoilers: Potentially all of S1 and S2 until after Owen's first death.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction and is intended as a tribute to characters and stories developed and owned by Russell T. Davies and the BBC. No copyright infringement is intended.
1. Okay, what the hell just happened?
In which we meet an ordinary bloke in an extraordinary situation.
Ianto Jones woke slowly, so slowly that when he was able to move his arms and legs he didn’t because he already knew they were bound. There was something over his eyes that kept him from opening them. The place where he was was silent. Though his heart was pounding and small shivers ran through his body as he regained a more normal mental state and fear began to build, he was not actually too uncomfortable. Whatever held his hands and ankles was tied firmly but not too tightly. He was lying on his side on what felt like a mattress of some kind. There even seemed to be a pillow under his head.
And the whole thing was completely impossible. How the hell had this happened? It wasn’t as if he was some kind of private detective or spy, like in the movies. He wrote programs for the computers at the third largest insurance company in London. He was a geek, for God’s sake. Ianto Jones. Twenty-five years old. No one in particular. Neither his family nor Mary Elizabeth’s had any money…
He wondered suddenly how long he had been gone. Was Mary worried about him yet? Had there been a ransom call? Damn it, she was in the sixth month of what had been a fairly difficult pregnancy. The last thing she needed was this kind of trauma. Especially since it didn’t make any fucking sense!
Alright, he thought. Calm down and try to think. The trouble was that the more he thought, the less sense it made. They’d actually taken him at work. He’d been kidnapped out of a 40-story office building full of people in the middle of the morning on a Tuesday. What kind of sense did that make? He’d gotten a rather odd email, apparently from the office of the Vice-President for Human Resources, asking him to come up to the 25th floor. He would be met, it said. He’d gone to the elevator wondering what on earth this could be about, worried, of course, that he was about to be laid off, trying to comfort himself with the knowledge that there had been no rumors that anyone would be let go. A man and a woman he did not recognize were already in the elevator when he got on, and as soon as the doors closed he had found himself shoved unceremoniously against the wall, and told, “Don’t fight this. We don’t want to hurt you.” Then there had been the sting of a hypodermic needle in his upper thigh.
Of course he had fought, but what the hell did he know about fighting? The woman (oh, yeah, that had been good for the old ego) held him against the wall easily, ignoring his demands to be freed, ignoring his insistence that they had the wrong man. And soon he had found himself floating away, unable to keep fighting, unable to do anything but curse them. The last thing he remembered…
Ianto frowned. No, that must have been a dream. It made no sense that the last thing he thought he could remember was being completely limp, sightless, almost mindless, but feeling someone’s arms around him, holding him gently, and a soft voice near his ear whispering, “Thank God, Thank God,” over and over. No, that had to be a drug-induced dream.
No, none of this made sense unless they had grabbed the wrong man. The trouble was, what would they do to him when they realized he was not the one that they had been after?
The reasonable answer to that left him cold and shivering. He thought of his wife, left without him. He started pulling on the bindings at his ankles and wrists. He had to get out of here. He had to get back to Mary Elizabeth. The bindings remained firm. He thought of the baby daughter he would never see. He wanted very badly to cry, but just then he heard a door open. He froze, heart pounding.
He thought he could hear at least two people come into the room. Someone touched his neck, someone with very cold hands. He could not prevent the flinch, but the person persisted, pushing his cold finger to the pulse in Ianto’s throat, leaving it there for several seconds, then withdrawing.
“He’s pretty much out from under, Captain,” said a voice. Bit of a London accent there, alright.
There was a scrapping sound, a chair being moved? Then a voice said, “I’m going to remove your blindfold, Mr. Jones. Keep your eyes closed until they get used to the light.” This was a different voice, with an accent it took him a moment to place. American? What the hell?
But he kept his eyes closed for his own reason as he said, “I don’t want to see you. By now, you must have realized you grabbed the wrong man. You can just let me go. I won’t tell anyone. I swear I won’t.” He tried to swallow in a very dry throat, and tried hard not to sound too pathetic as he added, “What ever this is has nothing to do with me. Please, my wife is pregnant. I don’t know what this is about so how can I be a danger? Please, just let me go.”
There was a pause, then the American voice said, “You’re wrong, Mr. Jones. This has everything to do with you.”
Surprise made him open his eyes. He found himself staring into a pair of blue eyes that seemed completely emotionless. The American sat back in his chair and Ianto studied him. He was dressed in a long-sleeved dark blue shirt that had been rolled to the elbows, and a pair of dark gray trousers. Light gray braces crossed his shoulders. He had a watch on one wrist and on the other some kind of leather cuff that looked well-worn. He had a thick thatch of dark hair and a cleft chin and was a surprisingly handsome... That thought broke off as a small wave of terror ran through him. He swallowed, forcing that feeling down, knowing he had to try to observe everything he could, so he could find a way out of this situation. The man continued to look at him and said once more, “This has everything to do with you.”
The terror Ianto felt before flared into pure panic. He struggled against the bonds that held his feet and hands, screaming, “Let me go! Let me go!”
The American reached for him and Ianto cringed away from him, then felt more hands on him, holding his shoulders from behind. He shouted wordlessly, struggled. But the bonds held and the two men in the room held him down until he had exhausted himself. In the end, he collapsed back on the bed, panting helplessly. “Please, please let me go.” Then to his humiliation he realized that there were tears running down his face, and he heard himself whimper, “I want to go home.”
Then, regaining a little of his composure, he tried to study the man who was now sitting on the edge of the bed, who held his thighs with strong hands. There was a cold anger on the man’s face that suddenly chilled Ianto. Looking at the set features he realized he was looking into the face of a killer.
But now the killer smiled at him. There was no warmth in the smile, but Ianto felt the edge of panic recede further. The man said, “We are not going to hurt you, Mr. Jones. You are going to stay here, but we are not going to hurt you.”
“What do you want!” The scream tore out of him. Then he was coughing helplessly, his dry throat suddenly in spasm. The American reached over his shoulder and then lifted Ianto into a sitting position. The rim of a glass was suddenly at his lips. Cool water soothed his throat. At last, the coughing stopped and he was able to say again, “What do you want?”
A strange and, to Ianto, rather frightening look came into the American’s face, covered over almost immediately by a pleasant but noncommittal smile. “For now, all we want is for you to rest for a while. Then we are going to talk.”
He stood, reaching into a pocket and produced a folding knife. Ianto felt his eyes go wide and the panic tried to come back. The man behind him, who had been holding his shoulders all this time said, “Easy, mate. He said we aren’t going to hurt you.”
Ianto turned to look at him, seeing him for the first time. Brown eyes set in an incredibly pale face. Expression completely impersonal, but not aggressive. Brown hair, wide mouth. Ianto realized this was the man that had been in the elevator.
He felt something tug at his ankles and saw that the American had used the knife to cut his bonds. Ianto stretched his legs carefully. The American handed the knife to the strange man behind him and Ianto felt his wrists come free suddenly. He slid his legs to the edge of the bed, sitting up fully and stretching sore shoulder muscles. His wrists were painful as well and he rubbed them a little fretfully.
The two men were standing at the door now, looking at him solemnly. “We are gong to let you rest now,” the American said, “There is a toilet and shower in there.” He nodded to a door at the far end of the room. “Clean clothes are in those drawers.” He pointed to a small and very battered chest with three drawers in it. “We’ll bring you something to eat in a while.”
Ianto stood, swaying slightly, and turned to look at the two men as they opened the door and started out. “Who the hell are you?” he asked.
The American looked over his shoulder at him. With a completely expressionless face he replied, “We’re Torchwood.”
Part 2
Author: Otrame
Summary: Ianto Jones is an ordinary bloke. Maybe a little on the geeky side. Works for a big insurance company. Married, first baby on the way. So, why won’t his kidnappers believe him when he tells them that he has never, ever heard the word Torchwood before?
Rating: PG 13 for mature themes.
Pairings: Jack/Ianto
Warnings:This story contains some descriptions of torture, most of which is psychological. Occasional highly charged sexual language, frequent cursing, etc. There will be some explicit violence and occasional brief sexual scenes, though these will be not be detailed or terribly explicit. It is an AU.
Spoilers: Potentially all of S1 and S2 until after Owen's first death.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction and is intended as a tribute to characters and stories developed and owned by Russell T. Davies and the BBC. No copyright infringement is intended.
1. Okay, what the hell just happened?
In which we meet an ordinary bloke in an extraordinary situation.
Ianto Jones woke slowly, so slowly that when he was able to move his arms and legs he didn’t because he already knew they were bound. There was something over his eyes that kept him from opening them. The place where he was was silent. Though his heart was pounding and small shivers ran through his body as he regained a more normal mental state and fear began to build, he was not actually too uncomfortable. Whatever held his hands and ankles was tied firmly but not too tightly. He was lying on his side on what felt like a mattress of some kind. There even seemed to be a pillow under his head.
And the whole thing was completely impossible. How the hell had this happened? It wasn’t as if he was some kind of private detective or spy, like in the movies. He wrote programs for the computers at the third largest insurance company in London. He was a geek, for God’s sake. Ianto Jones. Twenty-five years old. No one in particular. Neither his family nor Mary Elizabeth’s had any money…
He wondered suddenly how long he had been gone. Was Mary worried about him yet? Had there been a ransom call? Damn it, she was in the sixth month of what had been a fairly difficult pregnancy. The last thing she needed was this kind of trauma. Especially since it didn’t make any fucking sense!
Alright, he thought. Calm down and try to think. The trouble was that the more he thought, the less sense it made. They’d actually taken him at work. He’d been kidnapped out of a 40-story office building full of people in the middle of the morning on a Tuesday. What kind of sense did that make? He’d gotten a rather odd email, apparently from the office of the Vice-President for Human Resources, asking him to come up to the 25th floor. He would be met, it said. He’d gone to the elevator wondering what on earth this could be about, worried, of course, that he was about to be laid off, trying to comfort himself with the knowledge that there had been no rumors that anyone would be let go. A man and a woman he did not recognize were already in the elevator when he got on, and as soon as the doors closed he had found himself shoved unceremoniously against the wall, and told, “Don’t fight this. We don’t want to hurt you.” Then there had been the sting of a hypodermic needle in his upper thigh.
Of course he had fought, but what the hell did he know about fighting? The woman (oh, yeah, that had been good for the old ego) held him against the wall easily, ignoring his demands to be freed, ignoring his insistence that they had the wrong man. And soon he had found himself floating away, unable to keep fighting, unable to do anything but curse them. The last thing he remembered…
Ianto frowned. No, that must have been a dream. It made no sense that the last thing he thought he could remember was being completely limp, sightless, almost mindless, but feeling someone’s arms around him, holding him gently, and a soft voice near his ear whispering, “Thank God, Thank God,” over and over. No, that had to be a drug-induced dream.
No, none of this made sense unless they had grabbed the wrong man. The trouble was, what would they do to him when they realized he was not the one that they had been after?
The reasonable answer to that left him cold and shivering. He thought of his wife, left without him. He started pulling on the bindings at his ankles and wrists. He had to get out of here. He had to get back to Mary Elizabeth. The bindings remained firm. He thought of the baby daughter he would never see. He wanted very badly to cry, but just then he heard a door open. He froze, heart pounding.
He thought he could hear at least two people come into the room. Someone touched his neck, someone with very cold hands. He could not prevent the flinch, but the person persisted, pushing his cold finger to the pulse in Ianto’s throat, leaving it there for several seconds, then withdrawing.
“He’s pretty much out from under, Captain,” said a voice. Bit of a London accent there, alright.
There was a scrapping sound, a chair being moved? Then a voice said, “I’m going to remove your blindfold, Mr. Jones. Keep your eyes closed until they get used to the light.” This was a different voice, with an accent it took him a moment to place. American? What the hell?
But he kept his eyes closed for his own reason as he said, “I don’t want to see you. By now, you must have realized you grabbed the wrong man. You can just let me go. I won’t tell anyone. I swear I won’t.” He tried to swallow in a very dry throat, and tried hard not to sound too pathetic as he added, “What ever this is has nothing to do with me. Please, my wife is pregnant. I don’t know what this is about so how can I be a danger? Please, just let me go.”
There was a pause, then the American voice said, “You’re wrong, Mr. Jones. This has everything to do with you.”
Surprise made him open his eyes. He found himself staring into a pair of blue eyes that seemed completely emotionless. The American sat back in his chair and Ianto studied him. He was dressed in a long-sleeved dark blue shirt that had been rolled to the elbows, and a pair of dark gray trousers. Light gray braces crossed his shoulders. He had a watch on one wrist and on the other some kind of leather cuff that looked well-worn. He had a thick thatch of dark hair and a cleft chin and was a surprisingly handsome... That thought broke off as a small wave of terror ran through him. He swallowed, forcing that feeling down, knowing he had to try to observe everything he could, so he could find a way out of this situation. The man continued to look at him and said once more, “This has everything to do with you.”
The terror Ianto felt before flared into pure panic. He struggled against the bonds that held his feet and hands, screaming, “Let me go! Let me go!”
The American reached for him and Ianto cringed away from him, then felt more hands on him, holding his shoulders from behind. He shouted wordlessly, struggled. But the bonds held and the two men in the room held him down until he had exhausted himself. In the end, he collapsed back on the bed, panting helplessly. “Please, please let me go.” Then to his humiliation he realized that there were tears running down his face, and he heard himself whimper, “I want to go home.”
Then, regaining a little of his composure, he tried to study the man who was now sitting on the edge of the bed, who held his thighs with strong hands. There was a cold anger on the man’s face that suddenly chilled Ianto. Looking at the set features he realized he was looking into the face of a killer.
But now the killer smiled at him. There was no warmth in the smile, but Ianto felt the edge of panic recede further. The man said, “We are not going to hurt you, Mr. Jones. You are going to stay here, but we are not going to hurt you.”
“What do you want!” The scream tore out of him. Then he was coughing helplessly, his dry throat suddenly in spasm. The American reached over his shoulder and then lifted Ianto into a sitting position. The rim of a glass was suddenly at his lips. Cool water soothed his throat. At last, the coughing stopped and he was able to say again, “What do you want?”
A strange and, to Ianto, rather frightening look came into the American’s face, covered over almost immediately by a pleasant but noncommittal smile. “For now, all we want is for you to rest for a while. Then we are going to talk.”
He stood, reaching into a pocket and produced a folding knife. Ianto felt his eyes go wide and the panic tried to come back. The man behind him, who had been holding his shoulders all this time said, “Easy, mate. He said we aren’t going to hurt you.”
Ianto turned to look at him, seeing him for the first time. Brown eyes set in an incredibly pale face. Expression completely impersonal, but not aggressive. Brown hair, wide mouth. Ianto realized this was the man that had been in the elevator.
He felt something tug at his ankles and saw that the American had used the knife to cut his bonds. Ianto stretched his legs carefully. The American handed the knife to the strange man behind him and Ianto felt his wrists come free suddenly. He slid his legs to the edge of the bed, sitting up fully and stretching sore shoulder muscles. His wrists were painful as well and he rubbed them a little fretfully.
The two men were standing at the door now, looking at him solemnly. “We are gong to let you rest now,” the American said, “There is a toilet and shower in there.” He nodded to a door at the far end of the room. “Clean clothes are in those drawers.” He pointed to a small and very battered chest with three drawers in it. “We’ll bring you something to eat in a while.”
Ianto stood, swaying slightly, and turned to look at the two men as they opened the door and started out. “Who the hell are you?” he asked.
The American looked over his shoulder at him. With a completely expressionless face he replied, “We’re Torchwood.”
Part 2