FIC: Potentiality 2/8 (Torchwood)
Title: Potentiality (Or: How I Learned To Loathe The Quantum Bomb)
Author: Jewels (bjewelled)
Fandom: Torchwood
Disclaimer: Torchwood is the legal property of the BBC. In case you didn’t know.
Summary: Somewhere between “Countrycide” and “Captain Jack Harkness”, Ianto Jones went from hardly knowing how to hold a gun to be willing and able to use it. How did he get there, and what did he have to sacrifice in the process?
Word Count: ~45,000
Web Link: http://www.bjewelled.co.uk/fanfic/dwho/potentiality00.html
Read From The Beginning
**
Part Two
**
One thing about being dispatched on a mysterious errand, Ianto mused, as he sat on an uncomfortable railway seat, head resting against the glass, watching the countryside speed past, was that for once he'd gotten a rather nice lie in, not having to get the train until mid-morning. The only problem was that he'd awoken even stiffer than he'd felt the day before, and it had taken half an hour in a hot shower before he'd been able to move without wincing.
He’d received a single text message from Tosh that morning, asking where he kept the instant coffee, but apart from that there had been no communication with anyone else from Torchwood. Ianto guessed that either Gwen and Owen were still off work, or they just had no interest in knowing why he wasn’t around. He wondered if Jack would have enlightened them, or just wound them up by not saying anything. Considering that even Ianto didn’t know what he was heading into, it was probably the latter.
He tried running through all the current Torchwood business that he was aware of, which was a fair amount. Jack no longer kept him in the loop as he used to, but he still had a reasonable grasp of what was going on. He switched tacks, and tried thinking about what was at his destination. There had been no reports of alien activity, and if there had been, Jack would have dispatched one of the others.
Ianto didn’t understand, and was resigned to being hopelessly confused, right up to the point where he stepped off the train, glanced down the platform towards the exit, and caught sight of a woman wearing a distinctive and familiar uniform: a UNIT uniform. She was holding a printed sign with his name on it, eyes searching the crowd.
Ianto briefly wondered if Jack had decided to hand him over to UNIT and let them deal with him, but then realised he probably wouldn’t have told Ianto to come armed, and the woman wouldn’t have been waiting with a sign if they were going to throw him in one of their quietly unmentioned prisons. Taking a deep breath to fortify himself, he approached.
She was a rather plain looking woman, mousy brown hair tucked up neatly underneath her cap, but when Ianto stepped up to her and cautiously said, “I’m Ianto Jones,” she beamed in an apparently genuine fashion, which made her a lot prettier, and softened her features.
“Mister Jones, pleased to meet you. I’m Captain Louise Monroe.” She held out her hand. She spoke with an Australian accent that sounded like it had been modified from years of living in the UK, flattened with an English inflection. That was unsurprising, considered that Ianto had crossed the Welsh border three quarters of an hour earlier. He suddenly remembered what this town was notable for. It was the closest civilian town to one of the main UNIT bases in Britain. “Did you have a good trip?”
“As well as can be expected,” Ianto said, attempting to look less confused than he felt.
“No baggage?” She asked, looking at his empty hands.
Ianto blinked slowly. “No,” he answered.
“Oh. Ok, then.” Louise Monroe scrunched up the cheap paper sign into a ball and threw it into a nearby bin, gesturing for Ianto to follow her. “I must say,” she said, conversationally, as she started to lead Ianto out of the station, “We were rather surprised by Torchwood’s request.”
Ianto stuck his hands in his pockets as they wove their way through the crowd towards the car park. “Well, we do endeavour not to be predictable.” He had the uncomfortable feeling that Jack was testing him, throwing him into whatever situation this was without briefing him. He also had the distinct feeling that Jack was laughing at him somewhere back in Cardiff.
She laughed, politely. “Of course, we’re always happy to advance the cause of inter-agency cooperation. I dare say this whole endeavour will placate some at UNIT who think Torchwood is too much of a lone wolf.”
“Indeed,” Ianto agreed. Jack, what the fuck have you gotten me into?
Louise Monroe’s car was a nondescript blue Ford, clean, tidy and apparently official, if the authorisation stickers and security passes stuck to the inside of the windscreen were any indication. The radio was tuned to something inoffensive, and the UNIT Captain made small talk about the weather, Cardiff, and if Ianto had ever visited the area before (damp, dull and no, respectively) as she drove, and it was a fortunately short drive up to the UNIT bases, twenty minutes outside of town, where Monroe asked, as she pulled into a car parking space,
“Have you had anything to eat? Oh, of course not, if you’ve been travelling all morning. Here.” She handed Ianto a small clip-on visitor’s badge with a security tag. “Tell you what, I’ll drop you off in the mess. Grab anything you like while I go get my files from my office, and we’ll chat over lunch.”
Lunch meeting, Ianto thought. Very bloody funny, Jack.
The food was palatable, if not particularly flavourful, and Ianto spent his time waiting for Captain Louise Monroe to return by watching the UNIT officers and soldiers coming in and out, hearing snatches of their conversations. Some of them fell silent as they saw a civilian sitting in their mess hall, and he occasionally heard the word ‘Torchwood’ drift over to him, although those speaking were usually discrete enough to keep their voices below his threshold of hearing.
He took to turning his mashed potato into abstract sculptures while he waited.
Eventually Captain Monroe returned, a slim file folder tucked under her arm. She was carrying a two cups of coffee, one of which she placed in front of him while she sat down. “Now,” she said, without preamble, “It’s a bit short notice to put together a proper program, so what we’ve arranged to do is to do your assessment tomorrow, and we’ll use that to refine the provisional schedule we’ve put together.”
Ianto was tired of not knowing what was going on, so he finally succumbed to the urge to ask and said, “I’m sorry, assessment?”
“Yes,” Monroe blinked owlishly at him. “Obviously we can’t organise the proper training without first assessing your current level of ability.”
Ianto set his fork down carefully and precisely aligned with his plate. “Got a copy of the provisional schedule with you?” he asked, “Mind if I take a look?”
Monroe smiled, and handed over the folder in her hands, opening it to the relevant page for him. Ianto stared at the lines of neat print, all laid out in a tidy tabulated format. There it was in black and white: weapons qualification assessment. And underneath that, there was a further list of specified training including basic survival, tactics and demolitions, all marked as ‘possible future training - pending approval’.
‘Demolitions?!’ Ianto stared at the page, and then flipped back to the front of the folder, and stared at the page he knew would be there, having read so many similar reports and schedules in his time. Training requested for Ianto Jones, by Torchwood, Cardiff Division. Contact name: ‘Jack Harkness, Captain’.
Ianto abruptly realised that the information Jack had set him to gathering the day before hadn’t been just to keep UNIT ‘sweet’, it had been payment. Jack had obviously agreed to trade information for training that Jack usually provided his staff personally. But… why?
He folded the file and handed it back to a still pleasantly smiling Louise Monroe. “Is there a toilet around here?”
“Oh yes. Just outside, turn left, and around the corner.”
He thanked her and headed that way, he fingers wrapping around the mobile inside his pocket before he’d even pushed the door to the toilets open. Thankfully, they were empty, and Ianto punched in Jack’s number without thinking. It was only a couple of rings before the phone was answered.
“Ianto!” Jack said, cheerfully, “I didn’t think I’d be expecting to hear from you so soon.”
Ianto briefly wondered how he was supposed to phrase his questions. “Sir, what’s going on here?”
“I can hear your voice echoing off tiles. You calling me from a bathroom, Ianto Jones?”
“Yeah,” Ianto said, hoping his scowl carried across in his voice. “A UNIT bathroom.”
“Oh, you arrived alright then. I love UNIT bases, all full of very fit young men and women in uniform. Don’t suppose you took a camera with you?”
“Captain,” Ianto grit his teeth together. “What. Is. Going. On. Here.”
There was a brief pause and then Jack spoke again, sounding markedly less flippant. “You said you wanted more,” he said, “I’m giving you more.”
“Weapons training? I don’t understand. You’ve never exactly been shy about dispensing your… particular brand of instruction to staff.” Distance, and the inability to see Jack’s face, lent Ianto the strength to say things he might not have been able to say to the Captain’s face.
“And that would be the point,” Jack said. “You called me on it, after I gave Tosh that refresher course. You know exactly why I give people training.”
Ianto remembered coming into the shooting range as Jack was giving Tosh a quick refresher in certain types of weapons handling. He remembered the touches designed to distract, and to push and pull the woman into certain stances or movements, seen the way that Tosh flushed and did exactly as ordered and he’d blurted out, the moment Tosh had left the room, “You do it to control them, don’t you?”
It had been a poorly thought out statement, and Jack had given him a sharp, too-searching look. Ianto had briefly realised that he’d drawn too much attention to himself by asking, by seeing, and quickly covered for himself by asking if Jack wanted a coffee, and fleeing. Jack had never mentioned it since.
“And you and I both know you’d never accept it from me.”
Ianto would have been suspicious that Jack was trying to exert the same subtle control he did over the others. He kept them ever so slightly off-balance with too-familiar touches, close brushes with those non-contemporary pheromones that they had no defence against, quietly reinforcing his position as leader, as one to be followed. No, Ianto wouldn’t have been able to trust him to teach, and would never have agreed.
Ianto sighed, and pinched the bridge on his nose, willing back the incipient headache. He tried to blame it on the strong scent of bleach in the toilets. “You’re right,” he said, “I wouldn’t. Doesn’t change the fact you sent me here for two weeks of training without telling me to pack a bag.”
Ianto could almost hear Jack rolling his eyes. “Yes, and that would be why I said to take the expense card.”
Ianto leant against the cold tiled wall, feeling it leech the warmth from his back even though his suit jacket. “Why am I here, Jack?”
Maybe it was the effect of using his name, but Jack didn’t make the obvious response that he was there to learn how to handle his weapon. “This is just the first step. When you come back to Cardiff, we’re going to have a lot to talk about.”
Ianto realised from the dull ache of want in his stomach that he needed that so much, that the promise of such was something he hadn’t even realised he’d been missing. Jack had things to share with him, to trust him with.
At least he hoped so.
“Alright,” he said, softly, “But if you’re expecting me to salute you when I come back, you’re sadly mistaken.”
“I live in hope,” Jack said, and hung up.
**
Ianto returned to Captain Monroe and her schedule with a smile on his face and no indication that he found anything amiss. It was a technique he’d perfected over the months of tending for Lisa, and he wasn’t surprised when she gave no sign of noticing his confusion. He made agreeable noises as she ran through the basic plan for his assessment and subsequent training, and took her up on her offer of a quick tour of the base, since he was going to be spending the better part of the next two weeks there.
From the outside, it seemed a fairly typical military facility, with nondescript hangers and buildings that wouldn’t look out of place on a university campus. The major difference between most Universities and a UNIT base, however, was that most educational facilities didn’t have armed red-beret wearing guards striding casually around. Captain Monroe lingered at the administration buildings, before giving only a cursory pass over some of the hangars and buildings set further away from the main base area. It didn’t matter what she tried to disguise, Ianto already had an idea of what was where from Torchwood’s intelligence gathering (which, admittedly, was old, having come from the time before the fall of Canary Wharf), and even if he hadn’t had this illicit knowledge, the fact that there were generators and obvious containment procedures around certain buildings easily gave it away that they were research labs.
Out of respect for his hosts, and the fact that Jack had no doubt had to compromise a great deal to arrange this training, he didn’t point out the abysmal secrecy and instead nodded politely when Monroe told him they wouldn’t “have time for a full tour”. He rather supposed working for a subversive and literally underground organisation gave you a skewed perception on what exactly constituted ‘secret’.
Their tour ended at an indoor range, where there were several UNIT soldiers either practising or, he assumed, getting assessed for various marksmanship certificates. Monroe took him past the range, not giving him more than a cursory peek through the doorway, and to an office tucked away at the back of the building.
“This is Sergeant Jaq Tumenggung, one of our senior instructors,” she said, introducing Ianto to a man with a dark tilt to his skin, who had been sitting behind the desk scowling at paperwork when they had come in. “This is Ianto Jones, from Torchwood.”
“Mister Jones,” Tumenggung extended his hand, and his accent was thickly Indonesian. Ianto had to strain to understand it, though he gave no sign as he shook the Sergeant’s hand firmly. “I must say that we were surprised to get a request from Torchwood for training. Last time we had a run in with you lot, I believe your Commander gave General Carver something of an earful, if the way he was stomping around the base with a face like thunder was any indication.”
Ianto tried not to smile. “Actually, he’s a Captain.”
“A Captain, ah. So that gives him permission to subvert UNIT operations.”
Ianto shrugged slightly, as if to say ’We’re Torchwood. What do you think?’
“Well,” Tumenggung grinned, his teeth shiny and white and contrasting sharply against his skin. Ianto felt like he was being smiled at by a shark. “Far be it from us to turn down a request from such illustrious organisations as yourselves.” He stood. “I tell you what, shall we have a quick trial in the range right now?”
Monroe shifted. “Uh, I should probably…”
Ianto smiled pleasantly at her. “Not at all. The Sergeant is in charge of training, after all, and I’m here to be trained. If he’d like to do an early assessment of my abilities, I’m quite happy to let him do so.”
Captain Monroe frowned, but nodded, and trailed after Ianto and Tumenggung as the latter led the way down the corridor to a small three-person range. Ianto realised that this had all been planned when he saw the array of handguns and larger rifles already laid out.
“So,” Sergeant Tumenggung said, as they entered, and he gestured to the weapons. “Tell me what you know about these.”
Monroe settled against the doorway, arms folded, watching silently.
Ianto glanced at Tumenggung and at his nod, stepped closer. He looked the table over and saw, to his relief, that there was nothing he didn’t recognise. Quickly, he named each type of weaponry and the ammunition used, and looked up at the end of his recitation to see Tumenggung looking at him thoughtfully.
“And what do you know about using them?” he asked.
Ianto shrugged, sticking his hands into his pockets. “How to load and unload ammunition. How to store, how to make safe, how to clean.”
Tumenggung frowned slightly. “But not how to fire them.”
Ianto shook his head. “I’m Torchwood’s archivist and chief recorder.” It was the least offensive of his jobs, and more impressive than Owen’s moniker of ‘teaboy’. “It’s my job to maintain the armoury.”
“A librarian, god help us all.” Tumenggung looked faintly disgusted, like he was being asked to deal with an idiot. Ianto wondered if he should be offended, given that the man had only just met him. “You were asked to bring a Torchwood standard issue weapon. Did you?”
Ianto suddenly understood Jack’s instructions, and once again cursed the man for lacking the ability to simply be up-front and explanatory. He reached beneath his coat, pulling the standard Torchwood handgun out of a holster and setting it on the table, then pulled the clip of ammunition out of his pocket and set it down alongside.
“May I?”
Ianto nodded, and watched while Tumenggung picked up the weapon and looked it over. The man seemed intrigued, and puzzled. “Who makes these?” he asked after a moment.
“Torchwood does,” Ianto informed him, and pretended not to notice Tumenggung’s surprised glance. “It’s reverse engineered from something that landed in Snowdon around the 70’s.” He pointed to the clip. “The bullets are microflechette rounds, two hundred per clip. We make those as well.”
Tumenggung nodded slowly as he set the gun back down. “Load it for me.” Gone was the slightly suspicious look of a UNIT officer being forced to deal with a mistrusted ally, instead he was focussed, thoughtful, watching with sharp eyes as Ianto loaded the clip in quick, practised motions before setting it back on the table and stepping back.
The Sergeant nodded to himself, picked up the weapon and examined the safety.
“It’s designed to be as similar to most Earth weaponry as possible,” Ianto supplied, helpfully.
That was all Tumenggung needed to know, it seemed. He released the safety easily, and before Ianto could say anything, he fired three rounds quickly into a target already set up at the end. The noise of the shots resounded in the space of the range and made Ianto’s ears ring. He thought about making a comment about ear defenders, but decided it wasn’t the right time. Monroe had nearly leapt out of her skin, and had banged her elbow into the door. She stood at the back, swearing in an undertone and rubbing her elbow.
“Interesting,” Tumenggung said, resetting the safety. “Hardly any recoil, fires rapidly. A great improvement, I’d say, over most ‘Earth weaponry’. And absolutely useless for learning on.”
At Tumenggung’s gesture, Ianto took the weapon back and ejected the clip.
“You need to swim before you can drive a speedboat,” he said, and while Ianto was trying to puzzle that out, he spun on his heel and started to walk out of the range. “I’ll see you in the morning, Mister Jones.”
And then, before Ianto could say anything, he was gone. Captain Monroe approached, and nodded at the weapon still in Ianto’s hands.
“You can stow that in one of the lockers at the range,” she said, “It makes the MPs nervous if non-UNIT personnel walk around armed, Torchwood or not.”
Ianto saw the logic of not arguing and handed it over. As she took it, she frowned and said, “Look, I’m sorry, but I have to ask. You look like you’ve gone twelve rounds with a mad bear. Are you alright? I can take you to the base medic if you like.”
Ianto was aware he still looked a mess of bruises, but had rather hoped she wouldn’t call attention to it. “Cannibals,” he said, shortly.
Monroe’s eyebrows leapt upwards. “Seriously?”
Ianto nodded.
“Is that…” She frowned. “Is that normal?”
“It’s not abnormal.”
“Oh.” Monroe blinked rapidly, then shook her head. “I see why your Captain wants you checked out then. Come on. Let’s get this stowed, then I’ll show you your quarters.”
**
The phone was ringing. Ianto would have liked to pretend that it had woken him from his sleep in the dead of night, but considering that he’d been staring at the blank grey ceiling for the last two hours, he could really claim no such thing. He fumbled for his mobile, dropped next to the bed, in the dark, and cast an eye at the screen. He wasn’t surprised at the name it displayed.
“Hello?” He kept his voice low in deference to the hour.
“How’re the digs?” Jack sounded as awake as Ianto was, but then Ianto had known for a long time exactly how much the Captain slept.
Ianto raised his head off the lumpy pillow to glance around, although he’d already thoroughly explored the place earlier that day when Monroe had brought him there. “Prefab chic,” he answered, dryly. “And I thought my place was underfurnished.”
The prefab hut was one of a cluster given over to visiting staff or personnel that needed to be temporarily housed on site. Louise Monroe had apologetically explained that they weren’t set up for ViP guests, there having been a massive incident with a broken sewage line a fortnight before, and the nearest hotels were overbooked for a local science fiction convention. It had a bed, a desk and chair, and a TV shoved in the corner. There was also a small rail behind a curtain that supposedly acted as a wardrobe, upon which Ianto had hung the clothes he’d managed to buy when Monroe had taken him to the shops to find some outfits, but that was all there was in the way of furniture.
“I didn’t realise you were an advocate of spartan living.”
Ianto felt himself smile slightly. “More ‘unpacked boxes’ living. I never really… got around to it.”
They both knew why he’d been too busy to unpack, but Ianto was grateful when Jack chose to brush the issue aside. “If you’d like,” Jack offered, studiously calm, almost disinterested sounding, “I could help you unpack one of these days.”
Ianto felt something catch in his chest. The stuff in his house, hurriedly packed away into boxes without checking as he ran away from London, hadn’t been unsealed since he arrived in Cardiff. It was everything he had, everything he used to be. Could he handle the thought of Jack rifling through the remnants of his old life, touching it, questioning it?
“Sure,” he said, forcing his voice to lightness, “If you want to, I mean.”
“Only if you’re happy,” Jack added, hurriedly, “I don’t want to intrude.”
Ianto wondered if he had forfeited that right the day he brought a Cyberman into the Hub. “I’m sure,” he repeated.
“Good,” Jack said, “Although at this rate, I might tell you to come back earlier. I’m not sure how Owen manages it, but he’s managed to mess up instant coffee. It’s revolting.”
Ianto chuckled. “I’m surprised you got him to make any. Usually you can’t force him to go near a kettle.”
“Oh, he’s trying to impress Gwen by making her drinks before she asks,” Jack said, and although to an outsider, it might have sounded like he was joking, Ianto could hear the edge of jagged glass just underneath the surface of the words. “Did you know they’re having sex?” He said it conversationally, as if asking if Ianto knew how the weather had been lately, but Ianto winced, hearing that undertone.
“No,” he admitted, “Though I’m not surprised. I think it’s jealousy.”
Jack snorted, an unpleasant sound. “I’m not jealous of Owen.”
Ianto was genuinely glad that Jack couldn’t see his face. “I didn’t say you were,” he said, calmly, “Though if it would make you feel better, I could make a comment about the lady protesting too much.”
“Ianto…” Jack growled, warningly.
“I think Owen’s jealous of Gwen,” Ianto interrupted.
There was silence for such a long time on the phone that Ianto wondered if Jack had put the phone down on him, but then he heard the pterodactyl creeling in the background, and he knew the line was still open.
“You’d be amazed what you see when no one realises that you’re always standing there, watching,” Ianto said, “And for someone who claims to be such an expert on Human behaviour, you can be rather blind closer to home, Jack.”
Another long moment of silence. “Enjoy your training, Ianto,” Jack finally said, sounding, for the first time in a very long time since Ianto had met him, confused and a little bit defeated.
“Good night, sir.” This time it was Ianto who disconnected the call. He realised he should have maybe just kept his mouth shut, and not said anything, but the night wrapped around him, cushioning him from reality, and the distance from Jack and only being able to hear his voice did the rest. At least if Jack was still mad at him when he got back to Cardiff, he’d be able to shoot back correctly.
Laughing a little at his own idiot thoughts, Ianto turned his head into the pillow, and kept on trying to sleep.
****
Part Three
Author: Jewels (bjewelled)
Fandom: Torchwood
Disclaimer: Torchwood is the legal property of the BBC. In case you didn’t know.
Summary: Somewhere between “Countrycide” and “Captain Jack Harkness”, Ianto Jones went from hardly knowing how to hold a gun to be willing and able to use it. How did he get there, and what did he have to sacrifice in the process?
Word Count: ~45,000
Web Link: http://www.bjewelled.co.uk/fanfic/dwho/potentiality00.html
Read From The Beginning
**
Part Two
**
One thing about being dispatched on a mysterious errand, Ianto mused, as he sat on an uncomfortable railway seat, head resting against the glass, watching the countryside speed past, was that for once he'd gotten a rather nice lie in, not having to get the train until mid-morning. The only problem was that he'd awoken even stiffer than he'd felt the day before, and it had taken half an hour in a hot shower before he'd been able to move without wincing.
He’d received a single text message from Tosh that morning, asking where he kept the instant coffee, but apart from that there had been no communication with anyone else from Torchwood. Ianto guessed that either Gwen and Owen were still off work, or they just had no interest in knowing why he wasn’t around. He wondered if Jack would have enlightened them, or just wound them up by not saying anything. Considering that even Ianto didn’t know what he was heading into, it was probably the latter.
He tried running through all the current Torchwood business that he was aware of, which was a fair amount. Jack no longer kept him in the loop as he used to, but he still had a reasonable grasp of what was going on. He switched tacks, and tried thinking about what was at his destination. There had been no reports of alien activity, and if there had been, Jack would have dispatched one of the others.
Ianto didn’t understand, and was resigned to being hopelessly confused, right up to the point where he stepped off the train, glanced down the platform towards the exit, and caught sight of a woman wearing a distinctive and familiar uniform: a UNIT uniform. She was holding a printed sign with his name on it, eyes searching the crowd.
Ianto briefly wondered if Jack had decided to hand him over to UNIT and let them deal with him, but then realised he probably wouldn’t have told Ianto to come armed, and the woman wouldn’t have been waiting with a sign if they were going to throw him in one of their quietly unmentioned prisons. Taking a deep breath to fortify himself, he approached.
She was a rather plain looking woman, mousy brown hair tucked up neatly underneath her cap, but when Ianto stepped up to her and cautiously said, “I’m Ianto Jones,” she beamed in an apparently genuine fashion, which made her a lot prettier, and softened her features.
“Mister Jones, pleased to meet you. I’m Captain Louise Monroe.” She held out her hand. She spoke with an Australian accent that sounded like it had been modified from years of living in the UK, flattened with an English inflection. That was unsurprising, considered that Ianto had crossed the Welsh border three quarters of an hour earlier. He suddenly remembered what this town was notable for. It was the closest civilian town to one of the main UNIT bases in Britain. “Did you have a good trip?”
“As well as can be expected,” Ianto said, attempting to look less confused than he felt.
“No baggage?” She asked, looking at his empty hands.
Ianto blinked slowly. “No,” he answered.
“Oh. Ok, then.” Louise Monroe scrunched up the cheap paper sign into a ball and threw it into a nearby bin, gesturing for Ianto to follow her. “I must say,” she said, conversationally, as she started to lead Ianto out of the station, “We were rather surprised by Torchwood’s request.”
Ianto stuck his hands in his pockets as they wove their way through the crowd towards the car park. “Well, we do endeavour not to be predictable.” He had the uncomfortable feeling that Jack was testing him, throwing him into whatever situation this was without briefing him. He also had the distinct feeling that Jack was laughing at him somewhere back in Cardiff.
She laughed, politely. “Of course, we’re always happy to advance the cause of inter-agency cooperation. I dare say this whole endeavour will placate some at UNIT who think Torchwood is too much of a lone wolf.”
“Indeed,” Ianto agreed. Jack, what the fuck have you gotten me into?
Louise Monroe’s car was a nondescript blue Ford, clean, tidy and apparently official, if the authorisation stickers and security passes stuck to the inside of the windscreen were any indication. The radio was tuned to something inoffensive, and the UNIT Captain made small talk about the weather, Cardiff, and if Ianto had ever visited the area before (damp, dull and no, respectively) as she drove, and it was a fortunately short drive up to the UNIT bases, twenty minutes outside of town, where Monroe asked, as she pulled into a car parking space,
“Have you had anything to eat? Oh, of course not, if you’ve been travelling all morning. Here.” She handed Ianto a small clip-on visitor’s badge with a security tag. “Tell you what, I’ll drop you off in the mess. Grab anything you like while I go get my files from my office, and we’ll chat over lunch.”
Lunch meeting, Ianto thought. Very bloody funny, Jack.
The food was palatable, if not particularly flavourful, and Ianto spent his time waiting for Captain Louise Monroe to return by watching the UNIT officers and soldiers coming in and out, hearing snatches of their conversations. Some of them fell silent as they saw a civilian sitting in their mess hall, and he occasionally heard the word ‘Torchwood’ drift over to him, although those speaking were usually discrete enough to keep their voices below his threshold of hearing.
He took to turning his mashed potato into abstract sculptures while he waited.
Eventually Captain Monroe returned, a slim file folder tucked under her arm. She was carrying a two cups of coffee, one of which she placed in front of him while she sat down. “Now,” she said, without preamble, “It’s a bit short notice to put together a proper program, so what we’ve arranged to do is to do your assessment tomorrow, and we’ll use that to refine the provisional schedule we’ve put together.”
Ianto was tired of not knowing what was going on, so he finally succumbed to the urge to ask and said, “I’m sorry, assessment?”
“Yes,” Monroe blinked owlishly at him. “Obviously we can’t organise the proper training without first assessing your current level of ability.”
Ianto set his fork down carefully and precisely aligned with his plate. “Got a copy of the provisional schedule with you?” he asked, “Mind if I take a look?”
Monroe smiled, and handed over the folder in her hands, opening it to the relevant page for him. Ianto stared at the lines of neat print, all laid out in a tidy tabulated format. There it was in black and white: weapons qualification assessment. And underneath that, there was a further list of specified training including basic survival, tactics and demolitions, all marked as ‘possible future training - pending approval’.
‘Demolitions?!’ Ianto stared at the page, and then flipped back to the front of the folder, and stared at the page he knew would be there, having read so many similar reports and schedules in his time. Training requested for Ianto Jones, by Torchwood, Cardiff Division. Contact name: ‘Jack Harkness, Captain’.
Ianto abruptly realised that the information Jack had set him to gathering the day before hadn’t been just to keep UNIT ‘sweet’, it had been payment. Jack had obviously agreed to trade information for training that Jack usually provided his staff personally. But… why?
He folded the file and handed it back to a still pleasantly smiling Louise Monroe. “Is there a toilet around here?”
“Oh yes. Just outside, turn left, and around the corner.”
He thanked her and headed that way, he fingers wrapping around the mobile inside his pocket before he’d even pushed the door to the toilets open. Thankfully, they were empty, and Ianto punched in Jack’s number without thinking. It was only a couple of rings before the phone was answered.
“Ianto!” Jack said, cheerfully, “I didn’t think I’d be expecting to hear from you so soon.”
Ianto briefly wondered how he was supposed to phrase his questions. “Sir, what’s going on here?”
“I can hear your voice echoing off tiles. You calling me from a bathroom, Ianto Jones?”
“Yeah,” Ianto said, hoping his scowl carried across in his voice. “A UNIT bathroom.”
“Oh, you arrived alright then. I love UNIT bases, all full of very fit young men and women in uniform. Don’t suppose you took a camera with you?”
“Captain,” Ianto grit his teeth together. “What. Is. Going. On. Here.”
There was a brief pause and then Jack spoke again, sounding markedly less flippant. “You said you wanted more,” he said, “I’m giving you more.”
“Weapons training? I don’t understand. You’ve never exactly been shy about dispensing your… particular brand of instruction to staff.” Distance, and the inability to see Jack’s face, lent Ianto the strength to say things he might not have been able to say to the Captain’s face.
“And that would be the point,” Jack said. “You called me on it, after I gave Tosh that refresher course. You know exactly why I give people training.”
Ianto remembered coming into the shooting range as Jack was giving Tosh a quick refresher in certain types of weapons handling. He remembered the touches designed to distract, and to push and pull the woman into certain stances or movements, seen the way that Tosh flushed and did exactly as ordered and he’d blurted out, the moment Tosh had left the room, “You do it to control them, don’t you?”
It had been a poorly thought out statement, and Jack had given him a sharp, too-searching look. Ianto had briefly realised that he’d drawn too much attention to himself by asking, by seeing, and quickly covered for himself by asking if Jack wanted a coffee, and fleeing. Jack had never mentioned it since.
“And you and I both know you’d never accept it from me.”
Ianto would have been suspicious that Jack was trying to exert the same subtle control he did over the others. He kept them ever so slightly off-balance with too-familiar touches, close brushes with those non-contemporary pheromones that they had no defence against, quietly reinforcing his position as leader, as one to be followed. No, Ianto wouldn’t have been able to trust him to teach, and would never have agreed.
Ianto sighed, and pinched the bridge on his nose, willing back the incipient headache. He tried to blame it on the strong scent of bleach in the toilets. “You’re right,” he said, “I wouldn’t. Doesn’t change the fact you sent me here for two weeks of training without telling me to pack a bag.”
Ianto could almost hear Jack rolling his eyes. “Yes, and that would be why I said to take the expense card.”
Ianto leant against the cold tiled wall, feeling it leech the warmth from his back even though his suit jacket. “Why am I here, Jack?”
Maybe it was the effect of using his name, but Jack didn’t make the obvious response that he was there to learn how to handle his weapon. “This is just the first step. When you come back to Cardiff, we’re going to have a lot to talk about.”
Ianto realised from the dull ache of want in his stomach that he needed that so much, that the promise of such was something he hadn’t even realised he’d been missing. Jack had things to share with him, to trust him with.
At least he hoped so.
“Alright,” he said, softly, “But if you’re expecting me to salute you when I come back, you’re sadly mistaken.”
“I live in hope,” Jack said, and hung up.
**
Ianto returned to Captain Monroe and her schedule with a smile on his face and no indication that he found anything amiss. It was a technique he’d perfected over the months of tending for Lisa, and he wasn’t surprised when she gave no sign of noticing his confusion. He made agreeable noises as she ran through the basic plan for his assessment and subsequent training, and took her up on her offer of a quick tour of the base, since he was going to be spending the better part of the next two weeks there.
From the outside, it seemed a fairly typical military facility, with nondescript hangers and buildings that wouldn’t look out of place on a university campus. The major difference between most Universities and a UNIT base, however, was that most educational facilities didn’t have armed red-beret wearing guards striding casually around. Captain Monroe lingered at the administration buildings, before giving only a cursory pass over some of the hangars and buildings set further away from the main base area. It didn’t matter what she tried to disguise, Ianto already had an idea of what was where from Torchwood’s intelligence gathering (which, admittedly, was old, having come from the time before the fall of Canary Wharf), and even if he hadn’t had this illicit knowledge, the fact that there were generators and obvious containment procedures around certain buildings easily gave it away that they were research labs.
Out of respect for his hosts, and the fact that Jack had no doubt had to compromise a great deal to arrange this training, he didn’t point out the abysmal secrecy and instead nodded politely when Monroe told him they wouldn’t “have time for a full tour”. He rather supposed working for a subversive and literally underground organisation gave you a skewed perception on what exactly constituted ‘secret’.
Their tour ended at an indoor range, where there were several UNIT soldiers either practising or, he assumed, getting assessed for various marksmanship certificates. Monroe took him past the range, not giving him more than a cursory peek through the doorway, and to an office tucked away at the back of the building.
“This is Sergeant Jaq Tumenggung, one of our senior instructors,” she said, introducing Ianto to a man with a dark tilt to his skin, who had been sitting behind the desk scowling at paperwork when they had come in. “This is Ianto Jones, from Torchwood.”
“Mister Jones,” Tumenggung extended his hand, and his accent was thickly Indonesian. Ianto had to strain to understand it, though he gave no sign as he shook the Sergeant’s hand firmly. “I must say that we were surprised to get a request from Torchwood for training. Last time we had a run in with you lot, I believe your Commander gave General Carver something of an earful, if the way he was stomping around the base with a face like thunder was any indication.”
Ianto tried not to smile. “Actually, he’s a Captain.”
“A Captain, ah. So that gives him permission to subvert UNIT operations.”
Ianto shrugged slightly, as if to say ’We’re Torchwood. What do you think?’
“Well,” Tumenggung grinned, his teeth shiny and white and contrasting sharply against his skin. Ianto felt like he was being smiled at by a shark. “Far be it from us to turn down a request from such illustrious organisations as yourselves.” He stood. “I tell you what, shall we have a quick trial in the range right now?”
Monroe shifted. “Uh, I should probably…”
Ianto smiled pleasantly at her. “Not at all. The Sergeant is in charge of training, after all, and I’m here to be trained. If he’d like to do an early assessment of my abilities, I’m quite happy to let him do so.”
Captain Monroe frowned, but nodded, and trailed after Ianto and Tumenggung as the latter led the way down the corridor to a small three-person range. Ianto realised that this had all been planned when he saw the array of handguns and larger rifles already laid out.
“So,” Sergeant Tumenggung said, as they entered, and he gestured to the weapons. “Tell me what you know about these.”
Monroe settled against the doorway, arms folded, watching silently.
Ianto glanced at Tumenggung and at his nod, stepped closer. He looked the table over and saw, to his relief, that there was nothing he didn’t recognise. Quickly, he named each type of weaponry and the ammunition used, and looked up at the end of his recitation to see Tumenggung looking at him thoughtfully.
“And what do you know about using them?” he asked.
Ianto shrugged, sticking his hands into his pockets. “How to load and unload ammunition. How to store, how to make safe, how to clean.”
Tumenggung frowned slightly. “But not how to fire them.”
Ianto shook his head. “I’m Torchwood’s archivist and chief recorder.” It was the least offensive of his jobs, and more impressive than Owen’s moniker of ‘teaboy’. “It’s my job to maintain the armoury.”
“A librarian, god help us all.” Tumenggung looked faintly disgusted, like he was being asked to deal with an idiot. Ianto wondered if he should be offended, given that the man had only just met him. “You were asked to bring a Torchwood standard issue weapon. Did you?”
Ianto suddenly understood Jack’s instructions, and once again cursed the man for lacking the ability to simply be up-front and explanatory. He reached beneath his coat, pulling the standard Torchwood handgun out of a holster and setting it on the table, then pulled the clip of ammunition out of his pocket and set it down alongside.
“May I?”
Ianto nodded, and watched while Tumenggung picked up the weapon and looked it over. The man seemed intrigued, and puzzled. “Who makes these?” he asked after a moment.
“Torchwood does,” Ianto informed him, and pretended not to notice Tumenggung’s surprised glance. “It’s reverse engineered from something that landed in Snowdon around the 70’s.” He pointed to the clip. “The bullets are microflechette rounds, two hundred per clip. We make those as well.”
Tumenggung nodded slowly as he set the gun back down. “Load it for me.” Gone was the slightly suspicious look of a UNIT officer being forced to deal with a mistrusted ally, instead he was focussed, thoughtful, watching with sharp eyes as Ianto loaded the clip in quick, practised motions before setting it back on the table and stepping back.
The Sergeant nodded to himself, picked up the weapon and examined the safety.
“It’s designed to be as similar to most Earth weaponry as possible,” Ianto supplied, helpfully.
That was all Tumenggung needed to know, it seemed. He released the safety easily, and before Ianto could say anything, he fired three rounds quickly into a target already set up at the end. The noise of the shots resounded in the space of the range and made Ianto’s ears ring. He thought about making a comment about ear defenders, but decided it wasn’t the right time. Monroe had nearly leapt out of her skin, and had banged her elbow into the door. She stood at the back, swearing in an undertone and rubbing her elbow.
“Interesting,” Tumenggung said, resetting the safety. “Hardly any recoil, fires rapidly. A great improvement, I’d say, over most ‘Earth weaponry’. And absolutely useless for learning on.”
At Tumenggung’s gesture, Ianto took the weapon back and ejected the clip.
“You need to swim before you can drive a speedboat,” he said, and while Ianto was trying to puzzle that out, he spun on his heel and started to walk out of the range. “I’ll see you in the morning, Mister Jones.”
And then, before Ianto could say anything, he was gone. Captain Monroe approached, and nodded at the weapon still in Ianto’s hands.
“You can stow that in one of the lockers at the range,” she said, “It makes the MPs nervous if non-UNIT personnel walk around armed, Torchwood or not.”
Ianto saw the logic of not arguing and handed it over. As she took it, she frowned and said, “Look, I’m sorry, but I have to ask. You look like you’ve gone twelve rounds with a mad bear. Are you alright? I can take you to the base medic if you like.”
Ianto was aware he still looked a mess of bruises, but had rather hoped she wouldn’t call attention to it. “Cannibals,” he said, shortly.
Monroe’s eyebrows leapt upwards. “Seriously?”
Ianto nodded.
“Is that…” She frowned. “Is that normal?”
“It’s not abnormal.”
“Oh.” Monroe blinked rapidly, then shook her head. “I see why your Captain wants you checked out then. Come on. Let’s get this stowed, then I’ll show you your quarters.”
**
The phone was ringing. Ianto would have liked to pretend that it had woken him from his sleep in the dead of night, but considering that he’d been staring at the blank grey ceiling for the last two hours, he could really claim no such thing. He fumbled for his mobile, dropped next to the bed, in the dark, and cast an eye at the screen. He wasn’t surprised at the name it displayed.
“Hello?” He kept his voice low in deference to the hour.
“How’re the digs?” Jack sounded as awake as Ianto was, but then Ianto had known for a long time exactly how much the Captain slept.
Ianto raised his head off the lumpy pillow to glance around, although he’d already thoroughly explored the place earlier that day when Monroe had brought him there. “Prefab chic,” he answered, dryly. “And I thought my place was underfurnished.”
The prefab hut was one of a cluster given over to visiting staff or personnel that needed to be temporarily housed on site. Louise Monroe had apologetically explained that they weren’t set up for ViP guests, there having been a massive incident with a broken sewage line a fortnight before, and the nearest hotels were overbooked for a local science fiction convention. It had a bed, a desk and chair, and a TV shoved in the corner. There was also a small rail behind a curtain that supposedly acted as a wardrobe, upon which Ianto had hung the clothes he’d managed to buy when Monroe had taken him to the shops to find some outfits, but that was all there was in the way of furniture.
“I didn’t realise you were an advocate of spartan living.”
Ianto felt himself smile slightly. “More ‘unpacked boxes’ living. I never really… got around to it.”
They both knew why he’d been too busy to unpack, but Ianto was grateful when Jack chose to brush the issue aside. “If you’d like,” Jack offered, studiously calm, almost disinterested sounding, “I could help you unpack one of these days.”
Ianto felt something catch in his chest. The stuff in his house, hurriedly packed away into boxes without checking as he ran away from London, hadn’t been unsealed since he arrived in Cardiff. It was everything he had, everything he used to be. Could he handle the thought of Jack rifling through the remnants of his old life, touching it, questioning it?
“Sure,” he said, forcing his voice to lightness, “If you want to, I mean.”
“Only if you’re happy,” Jack added, hurriedly, “I don’t want to intrude.”
Ianto wondered if he had forfeited that right the day he brought a Cyberman into the Hub. “I’m sure,” he repeated.
“Good,” Jack said, “Although at this rate, I might tell you to come back earlier. I’m not sure how Owen manages it, but he’s managed to mess up instant coffee. It’s revolting.”
Ianto chuckled. “I’m surprised you got him to make any. Usually you can’t force him to go near a kettle.”
“Oh, he’s trying to impress Gwen by making her drinks before she asks,” Jack said, and although to an outsider, it might have sounded like he was joking, Ianto could hear the edge of jagged glass just underneath the surface of the words. “Did you know they’re having sex?” He said it conversationally, as if asking if Ianto knew how the weather had been lately, but Ianto winced, hearing that undertone.
“No,” he admitted, “Though I’m not surprised. I think it’s jealousy.”
Jack snorted, an unpleasant sound. “I’m not jealous of Owen.”
Ianto was genuinely glad that Jack couldn’t see his face. “I didn’t say you were,” he said, calmly, “Though if it would make you feel better, I could make a comment about the lady protesting too much.”
“Ianto…” Jack growled, warningly.
“I think Owen’s jealous of Gwen,” Ianto interrupted.
There was silence for such a long time on the phone that Ianto wondered if Jack had put the phone down on him, but then he heard the pterodactyl creeling in the background, and he knew the line was still open.
“You’d be amazed what you see when no one realises that you’re always standing there, watching,” Ianto said, “And for someone who claims to be such an expert on Human behaviour, you can be rather blind closer to home, Jack.”
Another long moment of silence. “Enjoy your training, Ianto,” Jack finally said, sounding, for the first time in a very long time since Ianto had met him, confused and a little bit defeated.
“Good night, sir.” This time it was Ianto who disconnected the call. He realised he should have maybe just kept his mouth shut, and not said anything, but the night wrapped around him, cushioning him from reality, and the distance from Jack and only being able to hear his voice did the rest. At least if Jack was still mad at him when he got back to Cardiff, he’d be able to shoot back correctly.
Laughing a little at his own idiot thoughts, Ianto turned his head into the pillow, and kept on trying to sleep.
****
Part Three