The Torchwood - 1/10
This fic takes place post-KKBB, but before the infamous first date.
Chapter 1
That the Torchwood Three Archives was Ianto’s domain was intricately understood by everyone at the Hub. When Ianto had first begun reorganizing (or, he thought sadly, organizing. You can’t reorganize something that hadn’t been organized to begin with after all), Owen had decided to play a practical joke by refiling everything in Gra-Gup backwards. He had been relegated to Tesco-brand instant decaf for a week. Ianto intended it to be for a month, but Suzie, as Jack’s second, made an executive decision and flat-out ordered Ianto to, “save the rest of us from an uncaffeinated bastard medic.” People had learned the lesson, though: don’t mess with the Archives.
So, Ianto thought, he was quite understandably peeved this morning when Jack had ushered Isaac Bevan from the Future Operations Committee (here on the yearly Hub inspection) to the Archives to take a look at the latest Rift-gift tech. When Ianto pleaded with Jack to let him bring the tech up (phrased nicely as, “We wouldn’t want Mr. Bevan to make an unnecessary trip when I can simply bring the items to him), Jack just smiled slyly and winked. That’s when Ianto realized that Jack was getting his revenge for that blow-job Ianto gave him last week as he hid under the desk during the PM’s phone conference. Ianto hadn’t meant to bite Jack; it was merely a natural reflex when Jack announced that yes, he did plan on attending the PM’s birthday party, and he’d be more than willing to sit one-on-one with the PM’s daughter and help her with her advanced calculus coursework. Nevermind that the girl was 22, tall, leggy, and had had relations with just about every minor minister without her father ever knowing (or, at least, Ianto hoped he didn’t know).
As Jack shepherded the mousy Mr. Bevan into the Archives, he called out for Ianto to pick up lunch for everyone. Which led, of course, to Ianto’s current predicament, lying in the alley half a kilometer from the Hub, surrounded by the remnants of take-out bags and watching as the now-pouring rain washed away the blood from what he assumed was a rather large hole in his chest and listening to a black-clad man speaking into a headset, “Tell Red I’ve got Jones. I’m bringing him in. Have a medi-kit ready.” With his pounding headache and blood loss, Ianto only barely registered the white light surrounding him and his assailant. His last thought was that if he died, he had every intention of returning to haunt Jack through every phone and video conference until the end of time.
Chapter 1
That the Torchwood Three Archives was Ianto’s domain was intricately understood by everyone at the Hub. When Ianto had first begun reorganizing (or, he thought sadly, organizing. You can’t reorganize something that hadn’t been organized to begin with after all), Owen had decided to play a practical joke by refiling everything in Gra-Gup backwards. He had been relegated to Tesco-brand instant decaf for a week. Ianto intended it to be for a month, but Suzie, as Jack’s second, made an executive decision and flat-out ordered Ianto to, “save the rest of us from an uncaffeinated bastard medic.” People had learned the lesson, though: don’t mess with the Archives.
So, Ianto thought, he was quite understandably peeved this morning when Jack had ushered Isaac Bevan from the Future Operations Committee (here on the yearly Hub inspection) to the Archives to take a look at the latest Rift-gift tech. When Ianto pleaded with Jack to let him bring the tech up (phrased nicely as, “We wouldn’t want Mr. Bevan to make an unnecessary trip when I can simply bring the items to him), Jack just smiled slyly and winked. That’s when Ianto realized that Jack was getting his revenge for that blow-job Ianto gave him last week as he hid under the desk during the PM’s phone conference. Ianto hadn’t meant to bite Jack; it was merely a natural reflex when Jack announced that yes, he did plan on attending the PM’s birthday party, and he’d be more than willing to sit one-on-one with the PM’s daughter and help her with her advanced calculus coursework. Nevermind that the girl was 22, tall, leggy, and had had relations with just about every minor minister without her father ever knowing (or, at least, Ianto hoped he didn’t know).
As Jack shepherded the mousy Mr. Bevan into the Archives, he called out for Ianto to pick up lunch for everyone. Which led, of course, to Ianto’s current predicament, lying in the alley half a kilometer from the Hub, surrounded by the remnants of take-out bags and watching as the now-pouring rain washed away the blood from what he assumed was a rather large hole in his chest and listening to a black-clad man speaking into a headset, “Tell Red I’ve got Jones. I’m bringing him in. Have a medi-kit ready.” With his pounding headache and blood loss, Ianto only barely registered the white light surrounding him and his assailant. His last thought was that if he died, he had every intention of returning to haunt Jack through every phone and video conference until the end of time.