Fic - There Will Always Be A Torchwood #2
Title: There Will Always Be A Torchwood #2
Fandom: Torchwood, obviously!
Pairing: Jack/Ianto runs throughout, of course, even with Jack MIA
Setting: Post-End Of Days.
The search for Jack, and for themselves. Ianto seems to be at the heart of it all, willing or not.
Previously...
There Will Always Be A Torchwood #2 (Owen)
Ianto has been turning up for work in jeans and a teeshirt these past few weeks. It makes more sense, when he spends at least half of every day and almost all of his nights hunkered down on the floor in the archives, with only piles of dusty boxes, folders and a thermos of coffee for company. He dons white gloves to handle the older, more sensitive documents, though. No matter how desperate the search, once an archivist…
They'd all agreed that with little else to go on they should sift through their own records in the hopes of turning up some clue as to Jack's real identity. Ianto, they insisted, was the best placed, had the necessary skills. Uncertain as to where to start, Tosh had suggested 1941. Of course, that made some kind of sense, but the only materials he'd unearthed, ones he'd never seen before at any rate, related to the real Captain Jack Harkness. Hadn't exactly been good for his morale, that, especially coming on the first morning of his search and just the second day after Jack's disappearance; and the documents had raised far more questions than had provided answers.
The official telegram to his mother, date-stamped 5th Jan 1941; a newspaper cutting from the Cardiff Examiner, dated a couple of days later, with his fiancee gushing about how they had loved each other, had wanted to spend their future together. Fiancee, my arse! That certainly wasn't the impression Tosh had given him of the situation, Ianto reflects bitterly. And the dates, they were all wrong! Anyway, hadn't Jack destroyed all records to make it look like the Captain was very much alive? Not much point assuming the identity of a man known to be dead, was there? Unless their Jack, his Jack, had been lying again. But why?
On the second day, Ianto had discovered the notebook, but not in the 1940s archive. It shouldn't have been there; definitely hadn't been one of the items he'd placed there himself just a week or so before Christmas. That's when he'd decided to hold off from sharing information with the others. Weeks later, and he's still keeping it to himself, carrying around the slender volume like a burden, a test of strength.
"Bottoms up!" Owen toasts, cutting into Ianto's thoughts as he refills their glasses.
Ianto rubs his brow with the heel of his hand and grunts a curt "Thanks." He desperately needs to sit down, and the conference table seems as good a place as any.
"You're looking a bit rough, mate."
"That's down to you" Ianto says wearily. "It's a twenty-four job, keeping you in line."
"Is that what you did for Jack, then? Keep him in line?" Owen leers.
"I think you have a little more insight into my role here, now he's gone…"
On the rare nights when he's not pre-occupied with the notebook and the archives he spends hours with Owen out on the streets, chasing after Weevils. There's been an increase in activity lately, as if the poor buggers know that something has changed, that the team's focus is elsewhere. And Owen actively wants Ianto with him. He seems to be developing a grudging respect for the way Ianto handles the Weevils, handles himself, and he likes Ianto's style of driving too. Fast and tight and on the edge. He also knows it's safer than going out on his own, or with one of the women, Ianto reckons. Owen still has a bit of a death-wish and doesn't trust himself, needs someone to stop him plunging over that cliff. Ianto isn't sure he's up to the task, what with everything else on his plate, but it's progress of sorts that Owen wants to be saved.
"Yeah, yeah I do. We all do." Owen knocks back another tumbler of whiskey, looking at him thoughtfully over the rim of his glass. "Look, about that part-time shag business…"
They haven't mentioned their fight for weeks now. It's not necessary, it's over and done with. Although Owen occasionally does wince and clutch his shoulder when he wants to wriggle out of any lifting and carrying. "You were right. Obviously."
"Changed my mind on that one, mate. Walked in on that kiss, remember? Part-time maybe, but the shagging bit was for real. Right?"
This is what passes for an apology from Owen, but Ianto doesn't want it. Why can't they all just let it go? "Right."
"So, what did Mr Luvva Luvva Man see in you, then? Apart from the obvious." Owen grinds his hips in a ridiculous manner before hopping up onto the table beside him. "Talking of which…" He plucks at Ianto's loose and grimy tee-shirt with thumb and forefinger. "Your standards have been slipping lately."
"More practical" Ianto mumbles, as Owen edges closer.
"Go on then, let's see what all the fuss is about. Give us a snog!"
"I'm not drunk enough for that" Ianto replies, leaning away from him.
"I am!" Owen declares cheerfully, running a hand over Ianto's denim-clad thigh.
Oh, what the hell! Maybe it will shut him up. Ianto sets down his glass and waits, still and quiet. But it isn't worth waiting for, not at all. Thank god! Owen's kiss is sloppy and clumsy and wet, and he stinks of Weevil. I guess we both do, Ianto supposes. "Jack had a little more finesse" he observes calmly, as Owen pulls back.
"Finesse? Oh, I could finesse the arse off you!" Owen lunges for him this time, his momentum knocking Ianto over onto his back. They wrestle and roll their way across the table, all knees, elbows, bared teeth and awkwardness, until they eventually come to rest, Owen on top.
"No you couldn't" Ianto mocks, taking Owen's head in his hands and pulling him down for something that actually resembles a decent kiss. Although he doesn't feel anything, for which he again offers up thanks, as their lips part and they exchange soft whiskey-breath. Ianto hopes he can say the same for Owen, although he's not too sure, as the man's body has gone limp against him and he's kissing him back. That better be his hip-bone, Ianto muses, as he delicately strokes the tip of his tongue across the roof of Owen's mouth. He's so light; must be losing weight. Better remember to order in some decent Chinese tomorrow, with lots of extras! He's so slight, and so not Jack…
It really doesn't take any effort at all to twist beneath him and tip Owen over the edge of the desk.
"Ooofff! Fucking hell!" Owen pants, grimacing as he gingerly levers himself to his feet. "No need for that!"
"So, that do anything for you?" Ianto asks, sitting back up, the soles of his trainers squeaking against the table-top as he moves.
"Nothing!" Owen answers too quickly. "Not a bloody thing! Although..." He limps over to retrieve the whiskey decanter. "That tongue thing? Bet that got Jack going!"
"Maybe." Ianto smiles sadly, hanging his head.
Owen hesitates as he walks by him. "Now, a question of etiquette. As I pass, do I give you the ass or the crotch?"
Ianto recognises the quote and isn't sure he should play along. He wonders how many times Owen has watched that fucking movie, and whether he should make the DVD 'disappear' from Owen's apartment. "In your case, definitely the ass."
He laughs at that, roughly squeezing Ianto's shoulder. "Think I'm going to kip down on the couch. Oh, and this never happened, okay?"
Ianto plays right into his hands. "The first rule of Torchwood snogs is you do not talk about Torchwood snogs." Mentally kicks himself for doing it.
"The second rule of Torchwood snogs is you do not talk about Torchwood snogs. Okay, here's one." Owen licks his lips nervously. "We are not special."
I can't keep doing this, Ianto screams silently. Why can't someone else be the grown-up for once?! "We are not crap or trash either. We just are. We just are, and what happens just happens."
Owen nods, looking strangely comforted. "You a book or film man, then, Ianto?"
"Neither. It's bullshit Owen." Ianto is in earnest, willing him to get over this self-destructive wank. Loving and losing, it's all part of life. He's been there himself, he's there right now, and you just have to deal with it as best you can. His mind drifts to the man in the notebook. Fifty years in limbo, probably longer, as time's prisoner. 'There will always be a Torchwood, so it's just a matter of time'. What possible comfort could there have been for him in hearing those words? Oh yes, people have endured far worse than loving and losing and wallowing in self-pity. "It's all just bullshit" he calls out to Owen's retreating back.
Owen pauses in the doorway, turns back, raises the decanter to him in some form of toast. "Y'know what, you're alright, Ianto… Just, don't keep me awake half the night crashing about downstairs."
Ianto gives him a startled look.
"Don't worry, don't want to know. You'd tell us if you found something that would help."
Would he, though? Ianto watches through the office window as Owen curls up on the couch, then pulls out the notebook from the waistband of his jeans. It's no way to treat an historical document, he knows, but he doesn't like to be parted from it. Even though he's read it so many times he almost has it off by heart. Even though he's beginning to think that it's a big fat red herring, a wild goose chase, a fool's errand, and any number of other cliches.
Pure fluke that he stumbled upon it at all, as far as he can tell…
***
NB - The book/movie that Owen and Ianto refer to is Fight Club. Of course.
On to #3
Fandom: Torchwood, obviously!
Pairing: Jack/Ianto runs throughout, of course, even with Jack MIA
Setting: Post-End Of Days.
The search for Jack, and for themselves. Ianto seems to be at the heart of it all, willing or not.
Previously...
There Will Always Be A Torchwood #2 (Owen)
Ianto has been turning up for work in jeans and a teeshirt these past few weeks. It makes more sense, when he spends at least half of every day and almost all of his nights hunkered down on the floor in the archives, with only piles of dusty boxes, folders and a thermos of coffee for company. He dons white gloves to handle the older, more sensitive documents, though. No matter how desperate the search, once an archivist…
They'd all agreed that with little else to go on they should sift through their own records in the hopes of turning up some clue as to Jack's real identity. Ianto, they insisted, was the best placed, had the necessary skills. Uncertain as to where to start, Tosh had suggested 1941. Of course, that made some kind of sense, but the only materials he'd unearthed, ones he'd never seen before at any rate, related to the real Captain Jack Harkness. Hadn't exactly been good for his morale, that, especially coming on the first morning of his search and just the second day after Jack's disappearance; and the documents had raised far more questions than had provided answers.
The official telegram to his mother, date-stamped 5th Jan 1941; a newspaper cutting from the Cardiff Examiner, dated a couple of days later, with his fiancee gushing about how they had loved each other, had wanted to spend their future together. Fiancee, my arse! That certainly wasn't the impression Tosh had given him of the situation, Ianto reflects bitterly. And the dates, they were all wrong! Anyway, hadn't Jack destroyed all records to make it look like the Captain was very much alive? Not much point assuming the identity of a man known to be dead, was there? Unless their Jack, his Jack, had been lying again. But why?
On the second day, Ianto had discovered the notebook, but not in the 1940s archive. It shouldn't have been there; definitely hadn't been one of the items he'd placed there himself just a week or so before Christmas. That's when he'd decided to hold off from sharing information with the others. Weeks later, and he's still keeping it to himself, carrying around the slender volume like a burden, a test of strength.
"Bottoms up!" Owen toasts, cutting into Ianto's thoughts as he refills their glasses.
Ianto rubs his brow with the heel of his hand and grunts a curt "Thanks." He desperately needs to sit down, and the conference table seems as good a place as any.
"You're looking a bit rough, mate."
"That's down to you" Ianto says wearily. "It's a twenty-four job, keeping you in line."
"Is that what you did for Jack, then? Keep him in line?" Owen leers.
"I think you have a little more insight into my role here, now he's gone…"
On the rare nights when he's not pre-occupied with the notebook and the archives he spends hours with Owen out on the streets, chasing after Weevils. There's been an increase in activity lately, as if the poor buggers know that something has changed, that the team's focus is elsewhere. And Owen actively wants Ianto with him. He seems to be developing a grudging respect for the way Ianto handles the Weevils, handles himself, and he likes Ianto's style of driving too. Fast and tight and on the edge. He also knows it's safer than going out on his own, or with one of the women, Ianto reckons. Owen still has a bit of a death-wish and doesn't trust himself, needs someone to stop him plunging over that cliff. Ianto isn't sure he's up to the task, what with everything else on his plate, but it's progress of sorts that Owen wants to be saved.
"Yeah, yeah I do. We all do." Owen knocks back another tumbler of whiskey, looking at him thoughtfully over the rim of his glass. "Look, about that part-time shag business…"
They haven't mentioned their fight for weeks now. It's not necessary, it's over and done with. Although Owen occasionally does wince and clutch his shoulder when he wants to wriggle out of any lifting and carrying. "You were right. Obviously."
"Changed my mind on that one, mate. Walked in on that kiss, remember? Part-time maybe, but the shagging bit was for real. Right?"
This is what passes for an apology from Owen, but Ianto doesn't want it. Why can't they all just let it go? "Right."
"So, what did Mr Luvva Luvva Man see in you, then? Apart from the obvious." Owen grinds his hips in a ridiculous manner before hopping up onto the table beside him. "Talking of which…" He plucks at Ianto's loose and grimy tee-shirt with thumb and forefinger. "Your standards have been slipping lately."
"More practical" Ianto mumbles, as Owen edges closer.
"Go on then, let's see what all the fuss is about. Give us a snog!"
"I'm not drunk enough for that" Ianto replies, leaning away from him.
"I am!" Owen declares cheerfully, running a hand over Ianto's denim-clad thigh.
Oh, what the hell! Maybe it will shut him up. Ianto sets down his glass and waits, still and quiet. But it isn't worth waiting for, not at all. Thank god! Owen's kiss is sloppy and clumsy and wet, and he stinks of Weevil. I guess we both do, Ianto supposes. "Jack had a little more finesse" he observes calmly, as Owen pulls back.
"Finesse? Oh, I could finesse the arse off you!" Owen lunges for him this time, his momentum knocking Ianto over onto his back. They wrestle and roll their way across the table, all knees, elbows, bared teeth and awkwardness, until they eventually come to rest, Owen on top.
"No you couldn't" Ianto mocks, taking Owen's head in his hands and pulling him down for something that actually resembles a decent kiss. Although he doesn't feel anything, for which he again offers up thanks, as their lips part and they exchange soft whiskey-breath. Ianto hopes he can say the same for Owen, although he's not too sure, as the man's body has gone limp against him and he's kissing him back. That better be his hip-bone, Ianto muses, as he delicately strokes the tip of his tongue across the roof of Owen's mouth. He's so light; must be losing weight. Better remember to order in some decent Chinese tomorrow, with lots of extras! He's so slight, and so not Jack…
It really doesn't take any effort at all to twist beneath him and tip Owen over the edge of the desk.
"Ooofff! Fucking hell!" Owen pants, grimacing as he gingerly levers himself to his feet. "No need for that!"
"So, that do anything for you?" Ianto asks, sitting back up, the soles of his trainers squeaking against the table-top as he moves.
"Nothing!" Owen answers too quickly. "Not a bloody thing! Although..." He limps over to retrieve the whiskey decanter. "That tongue thing? Bet that got Jack going!"
"Maybe." Ianto smiles sadly, hanging his head.
Owen hesitates as he walks by him. "Now, a question of etiquette. As I pass, do I give you the ass or the crotch?"
Ianto recognises the quote and isn't sure he should play along. He wonders how many times Owen has watched that fucking movie, and whether he should make the DVD 'disappear' from Owen's apartment. "In your case, definitely the ass."
He laughs at that, roughly squeezing Ianto's shoulder. "Think I'm going to kip down on the couch. Oh, and this never happened, okay?"
Ianto plays right into his hands. "The first rule of Torchwood snogs is you do not talk about Torchwood snogs." Mentally kicks himself for doing it.
"The second rule of Torchwood snogs is you do not talk about Torchwood snogs. Okay, here's one." Owen licks his lips nervously. "We are not special."
I can't keep doing this, Ianto screams silently. Why can't someone else be the grown-up for once?! "We are not crap or trash either. We just are. We just are, and what happens just happens."
Owen nods, looking strangely comforted. "You a book or film man, then, Ianto?"
"Neither. It's bullshit Owen." Ianto is in earnest, willing him to get over this self-destructive wank. Loving and losing, it's all part of life. He's been there himself, he's there right now, and you just have to deal with it as best you can. His mind drifts to the man in the notebook. Fifty years in limbo, probably longer, as time's prisoner. 'There will always be a Torchwood, so it's just a matter of time'. What possible comfort could there have been for him in hearing those words? Oh yes, people have endured far worse than loving and losing and wallowing in self-pity. "It's all just bullshit" he calls out to Owen's retreating back.
Owen pauses in the doorway, turns back, raises the decanter to him in some form of toast. "Y'know what, you're alright, Ianto… Just, don't keep me awake half the night crashing about downstairs."
Ianto gives him a startled look.
"Don't worry, don't want to know. You'd tell us if you found something that would help."
Would he, though? Ianto watches through the office window as Owen curls up on the couch, then pulls out the notebook from the waistband of his jeans. It's no way to treat an historical document, he knows, but he doesn't like to be parted from it. Even though he's read it so many times he almost has it off by heart. Even though he's beginning to think that it's a big fat red herring, a wild goose chase, a fool's errand, and any number of other cliches.
Pure fluke that he stumbled upon it at all, as far as he can tell…
***
NB - The book/movie that Owen and Ianto refer to is Fight Club. Of course.
On to #3