Fic: The Night Starts Here (1/4)

• It was not enough to hear Harry Feversham's story. (p. 50)

Four weeks and a pointless trip to the Himalayas later, Ianto Jones found out that wherever Jack had gone with the Doctor, he'd taken his mobile phone with him.

The news that Jack had apparently tried to call them while the team were off to Nepal electrified everyone, at least for a day or two. Tosh traced the attempted call back to London and they all clustered around her computer station, watching some grainy CCTV footage of Jack running down the streets, together with a young woman and a slender man wearing a long coat.

Gwen couldn't be talked out of going to London herself to retrace Jack's steps; and Tosh and Owen went with her, the latter leaving Ianto with some very specific instructions regarding his behaviour while they were gone, the gist of them being “Don't touch anything that looks important”.

Ianto spent the day watching those blurry images of Jack, over and over again, trying to find a reason and failing.

• „You sent Harry away this afternoon,“ said Durrance. (p. 280)

Team meeting, with Owen defiantly sitting in Jack's chair after their recent failure to track him down. Ianto served coffee and then carefully chose a seat that was as far away from Owen as possible without seeming to insult the man.

“So. Torchwood Two,” Owen said without preamble, and Gwen, who had been playing absent-mindedly with her pen, lifted her head and looked at Tosh who shrugged in answer. Clearly the two women didn't know any more than Ianto, which he found disturbingly reassuring.

“Strange little man in Glasgow, yeah?” Owen carried on, “Name's Steve Halliwell, by the way. Turns out Steve is slowly getting old – or maybe he just doesn't want to be forgotten, who knows – anyway, he's had a bit of an accident a while back. Can't move too well at the moment and will be recovering for a couple of months, so he's requested that one of us join him – temporarily, probably.”

Silence greeted this statement. Ianto observed Gwen out of the corner of his eyes and he could almost hear her thinking. If she were to go to Scotland Rhys would almost surely go ballistic – a months-long separation was the last thing their relationship needed right now.

“Any volunteers?” Owen was asking now, and Ianto knew who'd be quietly dispatched to Scotland in a few days' time, the 'probably' becoming 'maybe' and then a 'Weeeeeell...'.

After all, Torchwood Three could hardly spare its leader, nor its computer genius and Jack – if he ever came back – would be severely displeased to find Gwen gone.

The tea boy, on the other hand...

Ianto raised his hand before Owen could single him out and make his humiliation complete.

• She spoke without any impressive lowering of the voice, but in the steady level tone of one stating the simplest imaginable fact. (p.30)

“Tosh? What are you still doing here?”

Owen and Gwen had gone home hours before. Owen had slapped his back, winced in distaste and then wished him good luck. Gwen had made as if to hug him, only being prevented from doing so by Ianto retreating behind the safety of the tourist counter. Finally she'd smiled awkwardly and muttered something about Rhys waiting for her before leaving with brisk steps.

It was a Friday night; on Monday Ianto would be starting his new job at Torchwood Two.

Tosh turned around from where she'd sat staring at her computer screen and shrugged.

“Just wanted to finish up some things before the weekend. Owen's given us the two days off and...” she trailed off uncertainly.

“Is there anything I can do for you? Cup of coffee, perhaps?” Ianto asked, suddenly wanting to get out of the Hub, away from the place where he'd spent the better part of the last two years.

Tosh shook her head. Ianto nodded at her and turned to go.

“Just...” he heard her voice behind his back. “Take care of yourself, ok? And don't be a stranger; a monthly report like the one we're getting now, well, sometimes, isn't really informative. If you ever want to talk to someone...”

Ianto turned around, smiled at her.

“Good night, Tosh.”

• “Yes, it's curious,“ and he turned his face to the west and the sinking sun. (p. 70)

Ianto preferred not to think too much about the fact that after two years of living in Cardiff his whole life still fit neatly into two suitcases.

It was a rainy Saturday morning; and a taxi would pick him up in fifteen minutes to drive him and his two suitcases to Cardiff International Airport from where he'd fly to Glasgow.

Two years.

Two suitcases.

After the Battle of Canary Wharf he'd put most of his things into storage, not wanting to face the task of sorting out what was his and what was – had been? - Lisa's. He'd only come back to their shared flat, the one they'd moved in together only weeks before, to pack some clothing – mostly suits – and some photographs, not bothering to even look at the rest.

And now he was two years older and the only change in the contents of the suitcases was that the number of black suits outweighed the number of charcoal ones.

Still, Ianto wasn't sad to leave this place behind. It had been the first furnished flat he'd come across upon his arrival in Wales and at the time he'd been too preoccupied to care much about his living arrangements.

Ianto checked his watch, put on a coat and spared a last look around to check whether he'd forgotten anything – he had not – before shutting the door softly behind him.

• „It was horrible, don't you think?“ (p. 150)

Well.

This was not quite what he'd expected.

Ianto knew that Torchwood Two was supposed to be even more strange than Torchwood Three with the prominent underground location and its immortal half-renegade leader.

Still, he wouldn't have expected to find himself in front of a large, rundown terraced house north of the city centre, vainly trying to locate a door bell and not quite believing that there was actually a letterbox in the doorway, neatly labelled Steve Halliwell – Torchwood Glasgow, Office Hours 9 am – 5 pm, Mon – Fri.

Finally giving up, Ianto rapped sharply at the door and waited.

Nobody came to open it; after a moment later however the latch clicked, the door swung back and revealed a narrow passageway that led to a dark stair case.

An irritable voice called from upstairs, “Well, come up then if you must!”

Taking a deep breath and straightening his tie, Ianto entered the house and the door swung shut behind him. The hallway he was standing in was dark, and permeated by a smell of dampness and cooked cabbage. He climbed the stairs slowly, reaching a beaded curtain at the end of it, and for a moment he wondered how the others were doing. Then he entered the room proper and blinked in shock.

He was standing in someone's living room.

Not a very nice living room, granted: The ceiling and wallpaper were yellowing; the furniture looked as if it had been bought at an Oxfam shop thirty years ago and then strewn randomly across the room; the windows were large but smeared with dust and dirt. Ianto didn't want to inspect the curtains or carpet any further for fear of finding them alive.

A small television set was flickering at the far end of the room, apparently on mute, and smoke was rising steadily from the sofa in front of it.

Ianto cleared his throat.

“Come on then,” the same voice that had called him upstairs said.

He approached the sofa with trepidation and saw that a man was sitting on it. He was in his late fifties, with sandy hair and watery blue eyes which were now squinting up at him. His right foot and leg were in a cast, propped up on the sofa. The man took a deep drag of his cigarette and coughed.

“Sir,” Ianto nodded politely, “Mr Halliwell, I presume?”

“You're presuming right,” the man huffed, “Sit down, you're giving me a crick in the neck. And who are you, anyway?”

Sitting down carefully on the armchair next to the couch, Ianto desperately tried to contain his shock and keep a calm façade.

“Ianto Jones, sir. The temporary replacement from Torchwood Three? I sent you an email a week ago.”

“Email!” the other man sneered, “Never read the bloody things if I can help it. Didn't actually expect you lot to send somebody.”

He didn't say anything else and an awkward pause ensued during which the older man calmly smoked his cigarette, eyes glued to the tv screen.

“So this is Torchwood Two?” Ianto asked finally.

“No, lad, this is my lounge. Office is downstairs, lift's through the wardrobe in my bedroom. Have a look if you want.”

“... In your bedroom,” Ianto repeated weakly, suddenly wondering whether this was all one elaborate practical joke.

“Through there, first floor to the right. I'm not down there much at the moment, though, can't really move the leg. Achilles tendon rupture or some other such rubbish, it'll be a couple of months till I'm mobile again.”

“How did that happen? In the field?”

“In the field?” his new colleague – boss? - released a hoarse bark of laughter. “This is bloody Glasgow, lad, not London or Cardiff! No, I fell off the stairs is all.”

“Ah.”

“Don't just sit there, get going! It's all yours downstairs.”

“Very good, sir.”

Ianto rose and made to leave the room, only to be called back by the other man.

“Oh, and Ianto?”

“Yes, sir?”

“It's not 'sir'. Never was, never will be, just Steve is all right. Welcome to Torchwood Two.”

• Mrs. Adair looked about her garden. (p. 190)

Toshiko: Ianto?

Toshiko: Ianto? You there?

Ianto: Yes.

Ianto: Sorry.

Ianto: Sorting out the Internet down here has been a bit of a nightmare, it's still not quite up to scratch.

Toshiko: ... Sorting out the Internet?

Toshiko: Are you serious?

Ianto: Sadly, yes.

Ianto: Things here are a bit unconventional.

Toshiko: How? I don't like the sound of that.

Ianto: Well, the only working computer I found here was running on MS DOS.

Ianto: Need I go on?

Toshiko: Please don't.

Ianto: Steve has been going to an Internet Café for the last couple of years to get his emails.

Toshiko: You're talking about the classified Torchwood emails?

Ianto: Yes.

Toshiko: So! Interesting first week then?

Ianto: If you want to call it that.

Ianto: I cleaned up.

Toshiko: Well that's good, isn't it?

Ianto: Strangely enough, no.

Ianto: Steve wasn't best pleased to find his office remodelled according to

Ianto: posh Yvonne Hartman-esque standards.

Toshiko: !

Ianto: His words, not mine.

Toshiko: I'm sorry Ianto.

Ianto: It's fine. Really I am.

Ianto: Just takes some getting used to I suppose.

Toshiko: Listen, I'm sorry I've got to go. Owen's calling me.

Ianto: Ok

Ianto: Bye, Tosh.

[conversation ends]

Ianto looked up from his computer, glancing around the office. In the last week he'd managed to throw out thirty years' worth of old junk, buy a completely new set of equipment and set everything up to run as smoothly as possible.

The office was actually located on the ground floor of Steve's house, with the archives and access to the garage underground. He had replaced the windows so that sunlight could stream in unhindered but it was actually impossible to look in from the outside. The CCTV monitoring system provided a constant background humming that he found strangely soothing, and the numerous screens gave the room a

blue-ish tinge at night.

He wasn't out of place here, wearing a suit, although Steve had complained loudly and persistently until Ianto had set aside a corner of the office for him. The wall there was still of a dirty grey colour unlike the gleaming white in the rest of the room. An old wooden table was laden with odd bits and ends, some cables and what Ianto suspected was an alien ironing board. To top it all off Steve had triumphantly placed an overflowing ashtray right on top of it.

Saving and encoding the IM transcript, Ianto sipped his tea and mentally added a coffee machine to the vital office equipment he'd need to buy later that day.

• No, not even this afternoon, when she had sat at her window and watched the lights change upon the creek. (p. 160)

Saturday afternoon, and Ianto did not quite know what to do with himself.

Steve had more or less kicked him out of the office yesterday at 5 o'clock, saying that he should have a look at the office hours, and anyway, he himself wouldn't be able to relax properly, knowing that Ianto was down there, puttering about.

Quite what exactly Steve needed relaxing from Ianto hadn't dared to ask.

And really, Ianto could have used the second entry, the underground passage leading directly from the garage to a little-used street near the Canal – Steve would never even know that he was there – but he wasn't quite that desperate. Yet.

So he'd had a lie-in and then rattled around his new flat – furnished and within walking distance to the office – for a bit before deciding to go out and explore.

He wasn't used to this much free time; and he hadn't had a proper weekend off for months. First there had been the move to Cardiff; then all of his time had been spent at the Hub, caring for Lisa and an insomniac Captain until finally there seemed to be little point in keeping on pretending that he still had a life outside of Torchwood.

Now it appeared like he would be forced to build up one, however, even if camping trips with Lisa and lazy afternoons in bed with Jack were irrevocably out of reach.

Ianto walked to the city centre; and then, having nothing better to do, he went shopping, even though it was Saturday and the shops were packed. He bought clothing; casual clothes, jeans, tee shirts, trainers. He bought books, neatly crossing titles off a list with books he'd been meaning to read for months but never got around to. He bought DVDs to watch on his laptop, random ones that were on offer – four for twenty quid – and CDs of bands he'd never heard about before.

Now he was at home, slowly eating take-away Chinese and staring out of the window, surrounded by shopping bags and memories.

Lisa would have scoffed at the fact that he'd added cleaning supplies to his enormous pile of purchases. Jack would have made a lewd comment about the tightness of his new shirts and asked whether he'd bough any porn they could watch together.

Lisa, who was gone forever and Jack who was no less gone even if Ianto wasn't so sure about the 'forever' bit – and to be honest he didn't want to be.

Scooping up the last noodles he left the chopsticks stuck in his mouth and let himself fall back on the wide double bed, sprawling tiredly. His bed in Cardiff had been a single bed, but then again Jack had never come there. The hope that this one would be put to good use in the near future – or ever – was, realistically speaking, non-existent and still Ianto closed his eyes and lost himself in fantasies.

• „Captain Willoughby,“ she repeated to herself. (p. 140)

Toshiko: Good morning Ianto!

Ianto: Morning Tosh. How are you?

Toshiko: Tired

Toshiko: but fine.

Toshiko: We spent all night trying to track down this funny alien signal

Toshiko: only to realise that it was a kind of pre-echo coming from the rift. My calculations show that the ship sending out the signal will only show up in about fifteen years.

Ianto: Oh. Right.

Toshiko: Long night, I could have done with some of your coffee!

Ianto: Wish I'd been there.

Toshiko: What about you? Did you do something nice over the weekend?

Ianto: ...

[Ianto is typing a message]

Toshiko: It can't have been too bad?

Ianto: I spent all of yesterday watching Jane Austen films. Pride and Prejudice, both versions and Sense and Sensibility.

Toshiko: Ooooh, I liked Sense and Sensibility!

Ianto: ...

Ianto: Steve more or less banned me from coming in over the weekend.

Toshiko: How is that bad? I'd love it if Owen did the same!

Ianto: I suppose so.

Ianto: It's strange. Anyway, I've ordered some equipment and it should arrive any minute. Talk to you later?

Toshiko: You've ordered a coffee machine, haven't you?

[conversation ends]


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