What Happened to My Life? (2/34ish)
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.
The story begins here.
2. A Fine and Private Place
In which Ianto explores his new home.
Ianto spent the next few minutes examining his prison cell. His first impression was old brick arching high over his head. There were no windows. The door leading out was metal and appeared very sturdy. The floor was very old concrete, scratched and rutted and even crumbling in places. The door to the bathroom was old wood, painted over many times, but still solid. It did not have a lock. The bathroom itself appeared to be a mix of old and new. The toilet and sink looked like they had been there for decades. The acrylic one-piece shower stall had obviously only been added recently. The shelving on which he found a new toothbrush, toothpaste, a razor and shaving cream, a few other toiletries, and a small stack of towels, was very old. The mirror above the sink was new. He stared into it and saw a completely bewildered Ianto Jones looking back.
In the main room there was the simple mattress covered with a plain sheet on a metal frame, the 3-drawer chest on one side and a small table on the other. The chest had two blankets folded on it, one cotton and the other wool. The table had a pitcher of water and the glass he’d used earlier.
There were new packages of socks and boxers in the top drawer of the chest. The other two drawers held a few t-shirts and several pairs of sweatpants. These were all clean but had obviously been used. Everything was in his size.
And that was it. There was nothing else. Well, there were three air vents about 20 cm by 30 cm, high up on the walls. The air was rather musty and damp smelling, and now that he thought of this, he became convinced that this room was underground.
He sat down on the bed a moment. It still made no sense. He wanted to shout, to scream, “What the fuck is going on?” But there was hardly any point in that. Time passed. There was no sound at all here, except his own breathing.
Finally, he gave up and took things out of the chest. The water in the shower had good pressure and after he’d washed his body and shampooed his hair, he let the water beat on the back of his neck. He sighed, thinking of Mary Elizabeth. She had to be going through hell by now. Police would have been called. He thought of her as she had been that morning. Well, probably yesterday morning actually, by now. In his mind she shone clear and bright, dark hair cut at her shoulders, pale freckled skin. Her belly seemed to get bigger every day and he found it amazingly erotic, that firm hard space that often undulated while they were making love, as if the child was as excited as her parents. He’d voiced this thought, and Mary had said, “That may be the most disgusting thing you’ve ever said,” though she was smiling as she said it. And he had kissed her softly and said, “I was talking about the love, not the sex, dirty mind.” And she had grinned and proved once more how much easier it was with her on top these days. He’d nearly been late for work.
And he remembered that special night that Mary had since insisted was when they’d started the baby. He had gotten a room at a fairly expensive hotel, and brought his woman there, to celebrate the raise that would allow them to get out of their claustrophobic flat and into something better, and they’d had a wonderful meal and a lot of champagne. She had moved beneath him like a goddess, embodying every possible connotation of words like love and passion and sex and joy. He had worshiped the incredible body that she used to send him into mindless rapture. Even here in this horrible place, the memory could not be ignored, and he grabbed his erection and rubbed and pulled until he came, murmuring “Mary, oh God, Mary. I love you so.” Then he’d collapsed onto the floor of the shower and cried until the water started getting cold.
When he came out of the bathroom, he saw that someone had been in the room. A meal had been left on the bed, a tray with plain ceramic dishes, institutional-looking flatware, and paper napkins. The main dish was Pad Thai with strips of pork and there was a small dish with several fried spring rolls. Small containers contained soy sauce, sweet sauce, mustard, and hot oil. This was a favorite dish and the smell literally made his mouth water. He wondered how long he’d been unconscious. It felt like he hadn’t eaten in several years. The food, while not fancy, was quite good, and it seemed to settle into his stomach, curling into a ball, and purring contentedly. His hunger sated, he looked at the last items on the tray, a small, insulated carafe and a mug. He opened the top of the carafe carefully, but when he smelled the coffee aroma coming up he made face, shuddered, and closed the lid. Nausea flared. God, he hated that smell!
With a sigh, he realized just how tired he suddenly felt. He got the tray, placed it on the floor near the door, got the cotton blanket and curled up under it. He expected to spend some time worrying about Mary, about himself, trying to figure out what had happened. Instead, he was asleep in moments.
Interlude 1
She heard him make a small noise of surprise. “What?”
“The coffee. Did you see the way he reacted to the coffee?”
“Unexpected?”
“Very.”
“Okay, good. Another trigger point, probably.”
“How long do you think…”
“I haven’t the faintest idea. I told you we have a period of observation ahead of us. And I will need you or one of your colleagues with me whenever he is awake. I won’t know what is significant.”
“Like the coffee?”
“Exactly.”
Part 3
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.
The story begins here.
2. A Fine and Private Place
In which Ianto explores his new home.
Ianto spent the next few minutes examining his prison cell. His first impression was old brick arching high over his head. There were no windows. The door leading out was metal and appeared very sturdy. The floor was very old concrete, scratched and rutted and even crumbling in places. The door to the bathroom was old wood, painted over many times, but still solid. It did not have a lock. The bathroom itself appeared to be a mix of old and new. The toilet and sink looked like they had been there for decades. The acrylic one-piece shower stall had obviously only been added recently. The shelving on which he found a new toothbrush, toothpaste, a razor and shaving cream, a few other toiletries, and a small stack of towels, was very old. The mirror above the sink was new. He stared into it and saw a completely bewildered Ianto Jones looking back.
In the main room there was the simple mattress covered with a plain sheet on a metal frame, the 3-drawer chest on one side and a small table on the other. The chest had two blankets folded on it, one cotton and the other wool. The table had a pitcher of water and the glass he’d used earlier.
There were new packages of socks and boxers in the top drawer of the chest. The other two drawers held a few t-shirts and several pairs of sweatpants. These were all clean but had obviously been used. Everything was in his size.
And that was it. There was nothing else. Well, there were three air vents about 20 cm by 30 cm, high up on the walls. The air was rather musty and damp smelling, and now that he thought of this, he became convinced that this room was underground.
He sat down on the bed a moment. It still made no sense. He wanted to shout, to scream, “What the fuck is going on?” But there was hardly any point in that. Time passed. There was no sound at all here, except his own breathing.
Finally, he gave up and took things out of the chest. The water in the shower had good pressure and after he’d washed his body and shampooed his hair, he let the water beat on the back of his neck. He sighed, thinking of Mary Elizabeth. She had to be going through hell by now. Police would have been called. He thought of her as she had been that morning. Well, probably yesterday morning actually, by now. In his mind she shone clear and bright, dark hair cut at her shoulders, pale freckled skin. Her belly seemed to get bigger every day and he found it amazingly erotic, that firm hard space that often undulated while they were making love, as if the child was as excited as her parents. He’d voiced this thought, and Mary had said, “That may be the most disgusting thing you’ve ever said,” though she was smiling as she said it. And he had kissed her softly and said, “I was talking about the love, not the sex, dirty mind.” And she had grinned and proved once more how much easier it was with her on top these days. He’d nearly been late for work.
And he remembered that special night that Mary had since insisted was when they’d started the baby. He had gotten a room at a fairly expensive hotel, and brought his woman there, to celebrate the raise that would allow them to get out of their claustrophobic flat and into something better, and they’d had a wonderful meal and a lot of champagne. She had moved beneath him like a goddess, embodying every possible connotation of words like love and passion and sex and joy. He had worshiped the incredible body that she used to send him into mindless rapture. Even here in this horrible place, the memory could not be ignored, and he grabbed his erection and rubbed and pulled until he came, murmuring “Mary, oh God, Mary. I love you so.” Then he’d collapsed onto the floor of the shower and cried until the water started getting cold.
When he came out of the bathroom, he saw that someone had been in the room. A meal had been left on the bed, a tray with plain ceramic dishes, institutional-looking flatware, and paper napkins. The main dish was Pad Thai with strips of pork and there was a small dish with several fried spring rolls. Small containers contained soy sauce, sweet sauce, mustard, and hot oil. This was a favorite dish and the smell literally made his mouth water. He wondered how long he’d been unconscious. It felt like he hadn’t eaten in several years. The food, while not fancy, was quite good, and it seemed to settle into his stomach, curling into a ball, and purring contentedly. His hunger sated, he looked at the last items on the tray, a small, insulated carafe and a mug. He opened the top of the carafe carefully, but when he smelled the coffee aroma coming up he made face, shuddered, and closed the lid. Nausea flared. God, he hated that smell!
With a sigh, he realized just how tired he suddenly felt. He got the tray, placed it on the floor near the door, got the cotton blanket and curled up under it. He expected to spend some time worrying about Mary, about himself, trying to figure out what had happened. Instead, he was asleep in moments.
Interlude 1
She heard him make a small noise of surprise. “What?”
“The coffee. Did you see the way he reacted to the coffee?”
“Unexpected?”
“Very.”
“Okay, good. Another trigger point, probably.”
“How long do you think…”
“I haven’t the faintest idea. I told you we have a period of observation ahead of us. And I will need you or one of your colleagues with me whenever he is awake. I won’t know what is significant.”
“Like the coffee?”
“Exactly.”
Part 3