Fic: Dances In Four Worlds [PG, Ianto/Lisa, Ianto/Rose, Ianto/Ten, Jack/Ianto]
Title: Dances In Four Worlds
Pairings: Ianto/Lisa, Ianto/Rose, Ianto/Ten, Ianto/Jack
Words: ~2400
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Up to 'Something Borrowed' for Torchwood and the end of S2 for Doctor Who.
Summary: Four dances that could be happening somewhere.
Disclaimer: No, they're still not mine.
Thanks to china_white for looking over this for me, and to a bunch of lovely people at TWU for advice. ♥♥
Notes: For the twdw_ficathon Happy Prompts ficathon (#12: Dancing on air). This is apparently what happens when I try to write something happy. Which is to say it's not fluff, but there are technically no sad endings! All feedback welcome.
Dances In Four Worlds
I. The Bride
"I wanted you to know, in case we don't both make it--"
"Don't say that. We'll make it."
"In case. I was going to... well, I've got an engagement ring at home. I was going to ask you on Friday--"
"So ask me on Friday. I'll even pretend you've not spoilt the surprise if you get down on one knee and ask me to make you the happiest man in the world."
Ianto pulled Lisa to him and kissed her, knowing it could be for the last time. He choked back tears as they parted, one hand gripping hers and the other on the doorknob of the supply closet. "On three, we run for it. One... two...."
"I can't believe I let you talk me into this for the first dance."
"What? Me and Mrs Jones, we got a thing going on," Ianto said in his best imitation of an American accent.
Lisa giggled. "I bet you say that to all your wives."
"Only the gorgeous ones," Ianto said, pulling her a little closer.
II. The Birthday Girl
Rose was twenty-one today. She'd told Pete repeatedly that she didn't want a big do, but he'd brushed it off as some women-don't-say-what-they-mean thing and set it up anyway. So here she was, the coiffed and perfumed guest of honour at what had somehow turned into the social event of the season. She didn't know even a quarter of the people here.
She'd gone to the toilet for a bit of peace, and upon her return found that the little cluster of her mates had scattered. Mickey was on the dance floor trying not to step on Macda's toes, and Sheila was by the buffet chatting up a bloke Rose thought was the CEO of something. Anna was nowhere to be seen, which probably meant she was out having a fag.
It was nice to have friends again. They'd been Mickey's first, but they'd welcomed her in easily. They were among the few who knew where she'd really come from. Rose made polite noises at a few well-wishers and snagged a couple of glasses of champagne on her way to the balcony. Anna wasn't there, though.
The man looking out over the railing turned towards her when the door banged shut. He was, in a word, gorgeous.
"Sorry," Rose said, feeling a blush creep onto her cheeks. "I thought my mate Anna'd be out here."
He smirked. "Ginger, bit pissed, swears like a trooper?"
"That's Anna." Bless her.
"She was here. I think she went to the toilet."
"Oh." Rose shifted, wiggling her pinched toes inside her horrifyingly expensive high heels. She really didn't want to go back in just now. "Champagne?" She held out the second glass.
He took it. "Happy birthday," he said, brushing his glass lightly against hers. The sleeve of his jacket slid back as he lifted his arm to drink, revealing a silver cufflink and what looked like the edge of a tattoo.
"Thanks. Sorry, I don't know your name."
"Jones. Ianto Jones." Of course, the Welsh accent. She'd just been staring at the arse of the brilliant, enigmatic youngest-ever head of Torchwood Three. Lovely. Her horror must have shown on her face, because he laughed. "I see you've heard of me."
"Yes, sir," Rose said, automatically falling into the Torchwood formality that had been a bugger to learn, but was now stuck.
He waved his hand. "Nobody calls me sir. Well, no one I like much." The wry twist to his mouth made him look boyish, nothing like the kick-your-arse-as-soon-as-look-at-you man she'd heard about from Mickey and Jake. "Not much for parties?"
"Not this sort. You neither?"
"I wouldn't mind, only vapid social-climbing women keep trying to grope me." He rolled his eyes. "I'm quite the catch, apparently."
Rose knew just what he meant. "It's mad, isn't it? All of them looking at you like you're some sort of special prize and you're like, 'nope, just boring old me.'"
"Something like that, yeah." He turned back to look over the grounds and Rose wondered if she should go. The band (a bloody band!) started into a familiar tune. Just had to be that one, didn't it? She sighed, a little too loudly, and Ianto looked at her again. "Don't like this one?"
"No, I... I danced to it once. Long time ago."
"In that other world you came from?" Of course he'd know.
"On top of a spaceship in the middle of the London Blitz."
"Well, damn. I imagine dancing to it here would just be a disappointment, then?" He raised an eyebrow.
"I reckon that depends who's asking." She tried for coy, but the fact that she put her glass down probably gave her away.
She didn't even realise she'd been a bit chilly until his arms were warm around her. His suit was silky against her skin and he smelt divine, like spice and coffee and musky aftershave. And it was shocking how well he just fit, better than anyone she'd known for all of five minutes had any right to, but there it was.
They swayed slowly, one of his hands pressed at her waist and the other cradling one of hers to his chest, and it felt like something she'd never not done. Could somebody remind you of someone you'd never met? Maybe they'd have done this back in her world eventually, if she'd stayed. What would he have been there? This same disarming reluctant hero? Or someone so different she wouldn't recognise him but in the smirks and the quirks?
The heels gave her some height, but Ianto was tall enough that he could smile down at her. "Will I do?"
Rose smiled back up. "Think you just might."
III. The Traveller
"Take me somewhere no one's ever been," he'd said.
The silence out here was strange, so empty and thick it echoed off the craggy valley below where they stood atop a summit, literally on top of this little world whose ground their feet were the first to touch. The north pole of the 6th moon of Invinius, a misshapen bit of rock that had stumbled into orbit and no one had bothered to name.
"Is it stupid that I feel a bit sorry for it?" Ianto asked.
"Sorry for it?" asked the Doctor, his eyebrows arching up cartoonishly. "Whyever would you feel sorry for it?"
"It didn't mean to be here, did it? Just got caught up by the force of something bigger, and now here it is, with nowhere else to be." He stared out towards the purplish shadow of the planet. "Just the next of the bunch, not as good as the rest."
Yes, he felt a bit sorry for it, because he understood how it felt. Or would feel, if it could. Who was to say it couldn't? He'd seen stranger things. Archivists being kidnapped by bigger-on-the-inside spaceships and told they couldn't go home yet because this had to happen, for one.
"Wouldn't say not as good. Untried. Undiscovered potential." Ianto looked over and saw the Doctor was smiling at him. "It'll be as well-loved as the rest, one day."
Ianto smiled back, grateful. "Will they name it, ever?"
"Why wait? Let's name it now." That manic grin appeared on his face and he darted off into the TARDIS. Ianto didn't even get a chance to call after the Doctor before he was back, running out with a bottle of champagne and not even closing the door behind him. "A proper christening!" he said, brandishing the bottle by its neck like a club.
Ianto's first instinct was to point out that you couldn't just name a moon like it was a boat, but the Doctor's excitement was too infectious to do anything but laugh and shake his head. "What shall we name it, then?"
The Doctor fiddled with his sonic screwdriver for a moment and handed it to Ianto. "You do the honours."
Ianto eyed the thing dubiously. "Er...."
"Oh, come on, I thought you said you were used to alien tech!" He snatched the screwdriver back and pointed it at the ground. Ianto half-expected a laser beam or something to shoot out of it, but the squiggle in the sandy dirt seeming to appear all on its own was far more impressive. "See?" He handed it back. "Pick a name, any name."
At first Ianto considered something suitably lofty, a name from Greek or Roman myth, but there was probably already a moon somewhere with any name he could pick. He could name it after Jack or Lisa, but that was far too sad-bastard even for him. And Ianto was right out. Well, he could call it... "Oh, why the hell not." A suitably mad name for a suitably mad situation. He carved it out in slow, careful writing while the Doctor looked on intently.
"Brilliant!" the Doctor exclaimed, clapping his hands. "Absolutely brilliant! I was half-afraid you'd go for something trite like Calypso, millions of moons named Calypso. Should've known you'd be unique. Ha! A moon called Fred, one of a kind!" He flung the bottle to the ground and it shattered, the loud pop bouncing down the valley like a report of gunshots. "'Wonders in the deep' and all that, now we celebrate." He grabbed the screwdriver (and Ianto's hand along with it). A few clicks and music poured out the open door of the TARDIS.
Ianto raised an eyebrow. "Irving Berlin?"
"Very good! Well. More for the Fred Astaire. Seemed appropriate. Fred, get it? Nice bloke he was, too. Come on, or are you going to make me dance with myself?" The Doctor held out his arms in invitation.
"Fine," Ianto said, fighting laughter as he firmly took the lead position, "but you're Ginger."
"I always wanted to be ginger," the Doctor said, letting himself be twirled around.
In the long series of mad events that strung together to form his life, nothing quite topped doing some made-up swing dance with the last Time Lord high atop a moon named Fred, but Ianto had a feeling the Doctor would manage it eventually.
IV. The Lover
"Bad form to look like you're about to snog the bride, you know."
Jack looked up from whatever he was holding in his hand, his face briefly registering genuine surprise at seeing Ianto there. He let the paper fall to the desk and Ianto could see that it was an old photo, but not what the subject was. "I thought you'd gone home," Jack said, all bound up in that carefully-neutral look he got when he was about to deflect questions.
"There wasn't much point. I'd just have to be back here in an hour anyway." He shoved his hands into his pockets, leaning back against the doorframe with a sigh. He was too exhausted to sustain all the annoyance he'd built up. Still, he'd come here to say this and he'd say it. "I know that where you come from--"
"Are we really going to do this now?"
"Do what, Jack? What is it you think we're about to do?"
"You're going to tell me off for dancing with Gwen. And then you're going to ask me to choose between you. Then I'll put my foot in my mouth and say there isn't a choice, and you'll take it the wrong away and go all cold and butler-y and walk out. I'll spend the next week feeling like an ass and trying to tell you what you want to hear and failing miserably at it and then you'll either forgive me or tell me to find someone else's time to waste. So can we just skip to that last part? Preferably the version where you forgive me?"
Ianto laughed. "I don't want you to say anything to me because you think it's what I want to hear." He was gratified to see Jack look somewhat relieved. "But I am going to tell you off a bit."
"Look, the way I feel about--"
"The way you feel about Gwen is going to ruin her marriage if you don't let it go. As I started to say before you made up that little Eastenders episode, I know where you come from marriage doesn't necessarily shut all the other doors, but it does here. I'm not asking you not to love her. I'm not asking you to love me more, or the same way, or at all. But for her sake, for Rhys's sake, for the sake of that all-important life of hers you're always on about, let her go."
"I have. That was... I was saying goodbye." Jack's eyes narrowed. "And what do you mean 'at all?' You don't think I...." He shook his head, fingering the edge of the photo before pushing back from the desk and walking around to where Ianto was standing. "Gwen was happily ever after with hearts and flowers and a big tall pedestal to fall off of. She doesn't want to know I've got feet of clay and it hurts her every time she finds out." He put his hands on Ianto's shoulders, just inches away. "And if I hold back from you, it's only because--"
"I know. I'm not asking you to--"
"Why not? Ask me. God knows you're entitled to a demand or two. Make me--"
Jack's voice had taken on an edge that meant he was seriously close to ranting, so Ianto shut him up with a kiss. Jack sighed against his lips and wrapped his arms tightly around Ianto, pressing him against the door. It would have been so very easy just to give in and start tearing at clothes, but Ianto made himself push Jack away before it got too heated.
"You want a demand?" He ignored Jack's noise of confused protest as he ducked out of the embrace and crossed the office to the old turntable that sat half-hidden in one corner. He found a record that would do and dropped the needle down. Ianto turned back to Jack. "A demand," he repeated, extending a hand. "A proper dance, no ghosts, no fantasies, just us."
Inwardly, he flinched, realizing too late that 'You Belong to Me' might be a bit much, but Jack's smile reached his eyes for the first time all day. "That," he said, grabbing Ianto's hand and pulling him in, "I can do."