FIC: Virtuoso (Torchwood)
Title: Virtuoso
Author: Jewels (bjewelled)
Web Link: http://www.bjewelled.co.uk/fanfic/twfic.shtml
Fandom: Torchwood
Disclaimer: BBC's !mine
Summary: Music can stir the soul, but not usually like this...
Word Count: 4800
**
"When you said we were going alien hunting," Ianto Jones said, slightly peevishly, as his shoulder was knocked by yet another careless passer-by, "I thought you actually meant alien hunting." He set his face into a scowl and tried to impress his disapproval. "I brought my gun."
Jack Harkness came to a halt in the middle of the brightly lit foyer, turning around to face Ianto with a large grin on his face. The crowds that milling about flowed easily around him, as if he were a pillar or rock they all had to give way to. They didn't treat Ianto with any such courtesy, and he had to bite back curses as he was jostled by thoughtless men and women who didn't even seem to notice that they'd knocked into him.
"Well, it wasn't like I had to tell you to change," Jack said, reasonably, though there was a mischievous look in his eye that Ianto had come to recognise and dread, "You're entirely appropriately attired."
He was at that. While the attire on display mostly edged towards formal, it was hardly a black tie affair. Most of the women wore dresses of varying degrees of flair, while others found that an attractive blouse and smart trousers suited them. The men all wore smart shirts, but some lacked ties. Jack stood out like a sore thumb; no one seemed to mind, however.
Ianto folded his arms. "Not entirely. I can't take my jacket off." Not unless he wanted to panic everyone in the theatre and get tackled by security. Guns weren't exactly chic.
"I wasn't lying to you," Jack said, looking amused by Ianto's ire more than anything else. "Do you want a drink?"
"A drink?" True, a lot of people around them had drinks in their hands as they stood in the crowded foyer, waiting to be called into the auditorium, but if Jack wasn't lying, and they really were there to hunt aliens... "No, thank you. I'd rather keep a clear head."
"You're probably right, that's for the best."
Ianto sighed and rolled his eyes. "No chance of you actually telling me why we're here, is there?"
Jack grinned at him. "Isn't that obvious?" he asked, "We're here to see a concert."
Ianto had rather gathered that the moment that Jack had walked them through the city centre to this theatre, on the side of which were brightly lit posters declaring the performer. Ianto hadn't needed the posters to recognise her. Oma Valentina's arrival in Cardiff to give a short series of concerts had been the talk of local news for the last fortnight. She was a rising star of the music world, her concerts fast sell-outs, with a fan base that was more rooted in popular appeal than critical acclaim. Ianto had heard her described in one review as 'approachable, open to all comers' which did, of course, lay her open to a certain amount of dismissiveness from the snobbish critics that she was too popular to be truly great, but it was made up for by the fact that she was being credited for reviving an interest in live classical music. She didn't even have any CDs available. She only performed live, and the few camera-phone videos of her that were sneakily uploaded onto Youtube were quickly and ruthlessly hunted down.
It was unusual, to be sure, for an artist to eschew the money to be made in selling recordings. But it wasn't anything that would require Torchwood's attention, at least on the surface. Ianto had long since learned, however, that Torchwood never seen the worth of taking things at face value. At first, he'd almost thought that Jack had been subtler than he usually was, lying to Ianto to get him to come out for the evening on a date, but, no. If Jack said they were here alien hunting, they were here alien hunting.
But he seemed awfully relaxed. Ianto could only conclude that the situation wasn't that dangerous, in spite of the fact that they were surrounded by civilians.
Jack reached out to tug on Ianto's sleeve, and he reluctantly unfolded his arms.
"Try to look as if you're planning to enjoy yourself," Jack said, teasingly, "I promise, there's very little risk of getting mauled tonight." He paused, his face taking on a thoughtful look for a moment. "Well, at least not until we get back to your place later."
Ianto tried not to colour too visibly at the thought.
"I didn't think classical music was your style," Ianto said. Overhead, a speaker chimed softly, and a voice urged the audience members to take their seats for the performance. It was barely audibly over the clamorous noise of hundreds of people speaking at once, but the crowd started to thin, and people followed others nearby, entering the stalls and circles. "More a big band man, swing and jazz."
Jack actually looked a little misty-eyed at the thought. Ianto tried not to smirk. He checked their tickets, and aimed them in the right direction. They were checked by a woman in a neat-as-a-pin uniform, who directed them to go "straight up and to the right".
"I have my classical moments," Jack said, after he'd finally come back from whatever cloud he'd been daydreaming on. Presumably it was one inhabited by Glen Miller. "Not very often, but I have them."
They edged along the narrow rows of seats, muttering apologies to those already seated who had to stand up to let them pass.
"At least that's what you like to tell yourself," Ianto teased, as he draped his coat over the back of his chair and sat down. The seats were of an older design, like the theatre itself. They were slightly smaller and narrower than truly comfortable. But, he recalled vaguely, he had read that the acoustics here were remarkable. Comfort was a small price to pay for sound quality, it seemed.
Jack just grinned at him and pulled a packet of sweets out of his pocket, opening it and offering the contents to Ianto. Unable to resist, he grabbed a handful, chewing slowly as they waited for the auditorium to fill and the lights to go down.
A hush descended as the house lights went down and the stage lights went up. The safety curtain was raised, and there, in the middle of a stage, placed against the backdrop of black draped flecked with tiny lights, to resemble stars, was a grand piano, polished to a high sheen.
There was an appropriate pause, and then a woman emerged from the wings to the sound of polite applause. Ianto had seen photos of her on the news and on the posters outside the theatre, but even though he was removed from her by some distance, he was struck by her physical presence. She was rather tall, a little over six feet in height from what he could guess by comparing her to the piano she came to a stop next to, with thick and long golden hair that curled just slightly at the ends. She wore a silver-grey dress that flowed around her like liquid mercury, and was sufficiently low cut as to leave no one in doubt as to how well-endowed she was. She wore subtle silver and diamond jewellery that glinted in the lights.
"Wow," Ianto heard a man in the row behind him say. He couldn't help but agree.
Oma Valentina curtseyed before the audience, before taking her seat at the piano. She held her hands above the keys for a moment, apparently composing herself with a single deep breath, then she closed her eyes, and started playing.
Music had never been a great part of Ianto's upbringing, certainly not that of the classical variety anyway. Most of his preferred music came from illegal downloads of whatever he'd happened to hear on the radio that he found he liked. He had dated a semi-professional flautist for a few months. She'd had a disconcerting habit of muttering musical terminology while they were having sex, which might have contributed to his unwilling familiarity with the vocabulary, and also why they split up fairly quickly. If Jack had asked, a classical piano concert (although the music was apparently written by Oma Valentina herself rather than being of more familiar stock), would not have been his choice for a date venue. A cinema, yes. A nice restaurant, definitely. This?
His scepticism lasted barely a minute into the performance. It started off slowly, a delicate traipsing of her fingers across notes, in a major key. At first, it was just sounds, vibrations in the air, but then, slowly, he started to feel a sense of wonder. The sound made him think of exploring the vast vaults beneath the Hub, the first time he'd truly been left alone with them. He'd gone from shelf to shelf, pulling out random cartons and reading their contents descriptions. With each new discovery, his sense of wonder at the breadth of creation had been all he could think of. His responsibilities with Lisa, the necessity of lying to Jack, his shit-hole of a life, had all been forgotten as he explored with all the fascination of a child left in a magical forest.
The music grew louder, but infinitesimally. Oma Valentina led the piano through a slow crescendo, the tempo shifting, becoming fast. Wonder became excitement.
It was innocent at first. The high trills made him think of a leave on the breeze and he recalled being a child, chasing an autumnal leaf through the park, laughing as it danced on air, just out of his reach. He had followed it, uncaring of where it was going, knowing only that the thrill of running was far better than ever achieving his goal.
Staccato! A chase! His first proper weevil hunt, running through side streets and back alleys, the air biting his lungs, and the adrenaline pounding in his veins. There was fear there, yes, but it was an undercurrent, a flavour, a subtle harmony line. There was something primal about the chase, something that spoke directly to the part of his brain that was still a primitive, kept hidden and chained by a few thousand years of civilisation and manners.
His breath caught in his throat, and his fingers tightened on the arms of the small, uncomfortable chair.
The music rose up and down, dancing over upper octaves, before darting downwards and back up again. Something stirred deep down. Excitement, the thrill of the chase, the thrill of... of being caught. He felt the hairs raise on the back of his neck. He thought of the kids at school, the ones he'd shared secret, illicit kisses that seemed so daring at the time. He remembered the anxiety and terror of delighted anticipation of asking Lisa out for the first time. He remembered the shocking thrill that had run through him the moment he realised that it wasn't just a way to keep his secrets hidden, but that he actually wanted Jack, wanted him to touch him, wanted him to-
He bit his lip to keep himself from gasping and tried not to shift in his seat.
The music was building, chords thumped out with abandon as Oma Valentina's fingers thundered down on the keys. Crescendo, fortissimo, appassionato.
Pinned beneath Jack, his mind somewhere other than where his body was. His skin on fire where It brushed against the warmth of another Human being. A confusing conglomeration of sensations, of touch, taste, scent. Knowing that there was nowhere he'd rather be at that moment, lips touching lips, striving ever closer to-
A final chord, and suddenly there was no sound but the faint reverberations of sound that echoed about the hall. Ianto blinked, his brain sluggishly catching up to the fact that there was no longer any sound, the spell broken. He wasn't the only one. It was a few seconds before the rest of the audience stirred, and then thunderous applause, a far cry from the polite greeting, resounded. People were on their feet, clapping. Ianto followed suit, and glanced at his watch.
It had only been forty minutes. It had felt like a lifetime.
On the stage, Oma Valentina stood, curtseyed, and announced a brief interval of fifteen minutes, her voice a perfectly warm British contralto, and then she was striding off-stage, leaving the audience to unsteadily make their way to the foyer for drinks or other refreshments.
Ianto turned and looked at Jack, and saw a knowing expression. Ah. Jack had realised as well.
Jack reached out and gripped his hand. "Come on," he said, "Let's get some air."
**
The air outside was cool, and damp with the promise of rain. It was a welcome break from the suddenly unbearable heat inside the theatre. Jack led him around the side of the building, out of sight of prying eyes or security cameras, and pushed him against the wall. Ianto's arms automatically came up around him, as Jack buried his face in the crook of Ianto's neck and breathed deeply.
He stood there, almost vibrating with leftover sensation, soaking up Jack's physical presence, and it was a good minute or two before he trusted himself to speak rationally. His body wasn't anywhere near rational however, pressed up against Jack as he was, and hard. "That's not normal," he said, eventually. "Not in the least."
Jack took a deep breath, apparently calming himself, though when he pulled back so that Ianto could talk to him face to face, he had a brightness to his eyes that hadn't been there before. "You're right. I wasn't sure, of course. There was no way to find out except by sitting in on one of her concerts. It was one of the reasons why I asked you to come." He stroked the side of Ianto's face with his thumb. "You've been trained to recognise mental manipulation. Gwen hasn't."
Ianto groaned slightly, letting his head fall back to thud against the brick wall. "Empathic resonance," he muttered, "Of course." He, and probably everyone else in that theatre, was on a telepathic high, emotions being excited by the music and rebounding between them all, building to a... well... a crescendo.
Jack was staring at Ianto's suddenly exposed throat. "It's not harmful, as far as I can tell," he said, licking his lips quickly. "No one's ever reported ill effects. She doesn't seem to be feeding. But everything is being... enhanced, by whatever mental abilities she has."
He couldn't seem to be able to resist any longer that. Apparently still on the sexual buzz that Ianto was feeling, he bent his head, kissing and gently biting Ianto's throat, causing him to moan briefly, before a small amount of common sense reasserted itself.
"Jack," he managed to say, after a few moments of fumbling, "We're not having sex in an alley."
Jack drew back long enough to give Ianto an impish grin. "Why not? You can bet some people are putting the cubicles in the toilets to good use about now."
Ianto pulled a face. "It smells like piss and vomit. We're not having sex in an alley."
Jack made a noise of disappointment, but reluctantly pulled back, marshalling his thoughts. "Right," he said, casting a disparaging glance at the debris littering the gap between the theatre and the office building next to it.
The empathic high was lessening, letting Ianto think a little clearer. As he pushed Jack away long enough to rearrange his coat to hide his rather obvious excitement, he asked, puzzled, "You said one of the reasons."
Jack looked at him in askance.
"Why you brought me along. Implying that there was more than one reason."
Jack smiled, but it was the softer smile that Ianto rarely saw, the one he had learned to treasure. "Empathic concerts are rare, even centuries from now," he admitted, "I..." He shrugged slightly, as if trying to assign a lesser importance to his words, "I wanted to share it with you."
Ianto stared at him for a long moment, so long that Jack started to look uncomfortable, worried that he'd erred. Then Ianto leaned forward, reaching up a hand to the back of Jack's head, urging him closer, and kissed him. He'd had a certain amount of practice now, and it was a good kiss.
"Let's go," he said, eventually, "Or we'll miss the second half."
**
Aware of what was going on, it was slightly harder to lose himself in the music the way he had in the first half. But Jack leaned towards him slightly, and squeezed his wrist. "Relax," he murmured, "Let go. It's safe, we know that now. We can enjoy it."
Yes. They'd deal with the ramifications of an alien musician later, but there was no reason not to enjoy the rarity while it was here. Oma Valentina had returned to her piano stool, eyes once again closed, music filling the air. Now he knew about it, he could almost detect her empathic presence, drawing the emotions of the audience towards her, but, in the end, he didn't have to relax too much. He was swept away.
If nothing else, Oma Valentina was a beautiful player.
He found his brain following the notes as if they were points on a graph of Rift activity, watching them rise and fall to an unknown pattern that held its own beauty. Perhaps aware of the heights she had driven her audience to in the first half, Oma Valentina began the second in a much slower, more peaceful fashion. It brought to mind images of boat passing over still lakes, of graceful and slow dancing, of rain languidly falling on a winter's afternoon.
Minor notes tripped over themselves, lending a hint of melancholy to the music.
There was a physical ache in his chest, like something had been pulled free, leaving a gaping hole behind. He recognised the sensation, so intimately familiar with it. The echo of grief.
His mum, his dad. Torchwood One, Lisa, Tosh, Owen...
He blinked, and realised he couldn't see the stage. Tears were welling up in his eyes.
He felt a hand slip into his, and he looked down in surprise. Jack had taken his hand, holding it tightly, and Ianto saw the mirroring of unshed tears in Jack's own eyes. On the stage, Oma Valentina's hands, confident and sure, coaxed new strains from the piano strings. A note of hope, an assurance of the future, peace from grief, and life from death.
For one of the only times in his life, Ianto Jones leaned close and, without caring who was watching, kissed Jack Harkness. He didn't care, but, to be fair, neither did anyone else, as many of them were doing exactly the same thing with their partners.
On the stage, Oma Valentina smiled slightly, and played on.
**
"I feel like I've run a marathon," Ianto said, leaning against the wall as Jack fumbled in his pockets, before pulling something small out and, without giving him a chance to refuse, broke it under Ianto's nose.
Ianto jerked away so quickly from the burning stench, swearing, that he nearly clunked his head on the wall. "Some warning next time?" he said, grimacing as if that would help banish the stench of ammonia from his sinuses faster. He suddenly felt a lot sharper, the remnants of the empathic resonance banished.
"Where's the fun in that?" Jack broke a similar capsule under his own nose, drawing back sharply. "Gah," he said, thoroughly disgusted. His eyes were watering.
Ianto coughed, pointedly. "Now you've finished trying to kill me, how about opening the door?"
They had found a fire escape. It wasn't near the stage door, but would lead them backstage, hopefully unseen by the staff. It was the work of a few moments for Jack to use his wrist strap to disconnect the automatic alarm and allow them to open the door without alerting anyone. Fortunately, the part of the theatre they entered into was a side corridor far enough away from the stage that they were hidden from the black-clad technicians who ran about trying to do as fast a post-show cleanup as possible to allow maximum time in the pub.
"She really ran the gamut of emotions," Jack murmured, "It's no wonder you feel drained. Most people don't go through all those emotions in less than two hours."
"You have before though," Ianto deduced, and arched an eyebrow. When Jack turned to respond to that, Ianto just held up a hand and pointed at a hand written sign tacked onto the wall. "Dressing rooms this way," he said.
Jack nodded, accepting the tacit refusal to enter into a discussion, and followed the direction that Ianto indicated. The door they eventually found was recently repainted, and had Oma Valentina's name on it in a neatly etched metal plate. Glancing about to make sure they weren't watched, Jack tried the door. It wasn't locked, and he and Ianto entered easily.
Inside there were bunches of flowers, a dressing table and mirror, a rack for clothes, a long sofa, several cases, and a free-standing electronic piano. Oma Valentina herself was sitting at the dresser, wearing a terrycloth robe and humming to herself, playing an imaginary keyboard, fingers dancing across the tabletop.
Ianto shut the door behind them as Jack said, "There's no specific laws on this planet against empathic manipulation of a mass audience, but I'm willing to bet that it's pretty universally unethical when done without consent."
Oma Valentina gasped, leaping off her chair. Ianto tensed, ready to go for his weapon if she resisted, but instead she immediately fell to her knees, hands outstretched, palms upwards, in a gesture of what looked to be supplication.
"Please," she gasped, "Please don't kill me."
Ianto and Jack glanced at each other. Ianto shrugged helplessly, clueless.
"We weren't going to kill-"
Oma Valentina raised her head. "Please. I did not do anything with deliberation. The empathic resonance, it is unconscious, an artefact of the music. Humans become aroused, they cannot control their pupil dilation, body temperature, heart rate. It is the same for me." She bowed deeply, forehead almost touching the floor. "Please. Please do not kill me. Please do not send me back."
"I..." This hadn't been the response Jack had been expecting. "Oh, for God's sake, get up." He bent down, and took her arm, gently tugging her into standing again. "What are you talking about? We're not here to kill you."
Oma Valentina looked between them. "But... you know I am not of this planet. You are Torchwood, yes?"
Jack jerked his chin slightly in acknowledgement. "That's right."
"I have heard about Torchwood. Bad things. I was worried when my agent told me he had booked Cardiff, but I convinced myself it would be alright." Her eyes widened, pleadingly. "Please, please do not kill me. I have never hurt anyone. I... I only wish to play."
Ianto frowned slightly. If she was lying, it was a rather convincing act. Jack's stance had softened, becoming less confrontational. "You're not Human," he said, gently, "Let's see what you really look like."
Oma Valentina hesitated, then touched the silver bracelet about her wrist, the only piece of jewellery she hadn't removed. There was a brief flicker, and then someone quite different from the tall blonde bombshell was standing before them. She was still the height she had been, but her neck was longer, her shoulders starting further down than a Human's would. Her skin was covered with a pale turquoise fur, and where a Human would have had hair, there were thin fan-like extrusions, three of them in total. She had no ears, or nose, her mouth a lipless slit in the fur, and her eyes were solid black and liquid looking, large and set deep in her skull.
She was still wearing the robe she had been wearing as a Human, but now it showed more of her skin, and it was criss-crossed with thin white scars.
"Oh," Jack said, softly, "You're I'Darini."
"Yes," Oma Valentina said, brokenly, slumping back onto her dresser chair. "Though I fled Indar. The new regime found the musicians too... dangerous."
Jack looked terribly sad. The tragedy was, he would later tell Ianto, when they were curled up together under blankets and the cover of night, was that by his time the I'Darini were extinct, the victims of self-annihilation from an ideological war. The same war, presumably, that had led Oma Valentina to flee.
"Stirring up all that emotional sympathy," he said, "I would imagine most would consider that dangerous. I consider that dangerous."
"I have never harmed anyone," Oma Valentina said, in a bare whisper. "I have only played the music. Each hears it differently. Their emotions are their own. I only intensify the experience."
Jack held his stern appearance a moment longer, then sighed. "It's true," he said. "I've been watching you a while. I had my suspicions. But no one ever reported long term side effects, no one ever walked away from your concert performances anything less than satisfied."
"This world..." Oma Valentina hesitated then, when she saw Jack had no objection to her explaining, continued, "This world has so much music. So much variety. Musicians alone, in concert, evoking emotions on a pale, shallow layer. I spent years wandering, learning the instruments, the methods of evocation. It... it is wonderful."
There was such a breathless note of wonder in her voice, that Ianto's voice caught in his throat. He glanced at Jack.
"Oma Valentina," Jack said, "Is that your real name?"
She shrugged, turquoise fur ruffling in the breeze from the air conditioning. "It is the name I chose. I like it."
"Oma Valentina, how long have you been on this world?"
"Twenty seven years," she answered. Ianto found himself rather startled at the number. "Though I only decided to resume public performances this last year. I finally felt I was ready. I suppose, I felt secure here. Forgive me." She started to slide into that kneeling supplication posture again, but Jack snagged her wrist, arresting the movement.
"None of that. Twenty seven years, huh. Sounds like you're pretty acclimated to this planet."
Oma Valentina stared at him. "It is home," she said, finally.
"Do you want to stay?" Ianto asked, watching her closely.
"Of course!" Oma Valentina asked. "I would be killed if I went back to Indar. But more... I... the music is here. I belong here." She looked between them, her expression seeming to plead with them to understand.
Jack crouched down in front of her. "We'll watch you from now on, you know that?"
Oma Valentina sighed in an all-too-Human fashion. "Yes," she said, "I know." She reached out, running a finger over the edge of her digital piano. Her fingers had no nails on them, and they seemed to have one more joint than a Human hand. "I will miss the music," she added mournfully.
Jack shook his head. "No, you won't."
Oma Valentina's head jerked up sharply to look at him. "You mean-"
"Keep playing, Oma Valentina," Jack said, with a faint smile, "After all, I wouldn't want to deprive the world of the experience we had tonight."
She brightened up, looking pleased for the first time since they had entered the room. Her fur seemed to be nearly standing on end. She looked between Jack and Ianto. "You were in the audience? You felt the music? The resonance?"
"Yes," Ianto murmured, "It was... incredible."
Jack made a sound of agreement.
"Then let me make you a gift," she said.
Jack started to stand. "That's really not neces-"
"Oh, but you must let me." She gave him as doe-eyed a look as was possible with soggy black eyes. "Please. You are letting me keep the music. I must share my thanks with you."
Jack looked at Ianto, who shrugged. What was the harm, he thought.
"Sit, sit." Oma Valentina urged, gesturing them to the sofa, and sitting down at the digital piano.
They sat down, so close that they were pressed against each other at the legs and arms. Both of them were still able to go for a gun if she tried anything, but Oma Valentina did no such thing. Instead she turned on the piano, hummed to herself for a moment, then closed her eyes, and put her fingers to the keyboard.
It was nothing like the concert. That had been conducted in a grand theatre, and this was done on an artificial keyboard in an acoustically dismal dressing room, but somehow it seemed rawer, more real, than what they had heard out there in the audience. They listened, and were drawn into the music, just the two of them, the empathic resonance weaker for it, but somehow more intimate. Jack's arm went around Ianto, and his head on Jack's shoulder, and they listened silently as Oma Valentina played a nocturne made from wonder, gratitude, and love.
~ End ~
Author's Note: I am a somewhat lapsed amateur player of half a dozen instruments, and so one should not take from my sprinkling of musical terminology any sort of sensibility. There were two inspirations for this story. The first was my utter adoration of music, and the way that it has the ability to stir me to all sort of things just by clicking through my playlist. I was a tiresomely nerdish child when it came to such things. When we were allowed to take Walkmans into school, mine was tuned to Classic FM.
The second was sheer annoyance. I don't normally go for out and out deliberately slashy/sappy stories. But I'm afraid I got utterly hacked off by some rather undesirable comments a certain member of my family made regarding the 'gay kissing' in Torchwood. So, even though he'll never read this, it was mostly done to spite him.
I seem to write stories with the intention of spiting people a lot. It seems to be as good an inspiration as any. Contribute to my self-worth! Comment!
Author: Jewels (bjewelled)
Web Link: http://www.bjewelled.co.uk/fanfic/twfic.shtml
Fandom: Torchwood
Disclaimer: BBC's !mine
Summary: Music can stir the soul, but not usually like this...
Word Count: 4800
**
"When you said we were going alien hunting," Ianto Jones said, slightly peevishly, as his shoulder was knocked by yet another careless passer-by, "I thought you actually meant alien hunting." He set his face into a scowl and tried to impress his disapproval. "I brought my gun."
Jack Harkness came to a halt in the middle of the brightly lit foyer, turning around to face Ianto with a large grin on his face. The crowds that milling about flowed easily around him, as if he were a pillar or rock they all had to give way to. They didn't treat Ianto with any such courtesy, and he had to bite back curses as he was jostled by thoughtless men and women who didn't even seem to notice that they'd knocked into him.
"Well, it wasn't like I had to tell you to change," Jack said, reasonably, though there was a mischievous look in his eye that Ianto had come to recognise and dread, "You're entirely appropriately attired."
He was at that. While the attire on display mostly edged towards formal, it was hardly a black tie affair. Most of the women wore dresses of varying degrees of flair, while others found that an attractive blouse and smart trousers suited them. The men all wore smart shirts, but some lacked ties. Jack stood out like a sore thumb; no one seemed to mind, however.
Ianto folded his arms. "Not entirely. I can't take my jacket off." Not unless he wanted to panic everyone in the theatre and get tackled by security. Guns weren't exactly chic.
"I wasn't lying to you," Jack said, looking amused by Ianto's ire more than anything else. "Do you want a drink?"
"A drink?" True, a lot of people around them had drinks in their hands as they stood in the crowded foyer, waiting to be called into the auditorium, but if Jack wasn't lying, and they really were there to hunt aliens... "No, thank you. I'd rather keep a clear head."
"You're probably right, that's for the best."
Ianto sighed and rolled his eyes. "No chance of you actually telling me why we're here, is there?"
Jack grinned at him. "Isn't that obvious?" he asked, "We're here to see a concert."
Ianto had rather gathered that the moment that Jack had walked them through the city centre to this theatre, on the side of which were brightly lit posters declaring the performer. Ianto hadn't needed the posters to recognise her. Oma Valentina's arrival in Cardiff to give a short series of concerts had been the talk of local news for the last fortnight. She was a rising star of the music world, her concerts fast sell-outs, with a fan base that was more rooted in popular appeal than critical acclaim. Ianto had heard her described in one review as 'approachable, open to all comers' which did, of course, lay her open to a certain amount of dismissiveness from the snobbish critics that she was too popular to be truly great, but it was made up for by the fact that she was being credited for reviving an interest in live classical music. She didn't even have any CDs available. She only performed live, and the few camera-phone videos of her that were sneakily uploaded onto Youtube were quickly and ruthlessly hunted down.
It was unusual, to be sure, for an artist to eschew the money to be made in selling recordings. But it wasn't anything that would require Torchwood's attention, at least on the surface. Ianto had long since learned, however, that Torchwood never seen the worth of taking things at face value. At first, he'd almost thought that Jack had been subtler than he usually was, lying to Ianto to get him to come out for the evening on a date, but, no. If Jack said they were here alien hunting, they were here alien hunting.
But he seemed awfully relaxed. Ianto could only conclude that the situation wasn't that dangerous, in spite of the fact that they were surrounded by civilians.
Jack reached out to tug on Ianto's sleeve, and he reluctantly unfolded his arms.
"Try to look as if you're planning to enjoy yourself," Jack said, teasingly, "I promise, there's very little risk of getting mauled tonight." He paused, his face taking on a thoughtful look for a moment. "Well, at least not until we get back to your place later."
Ianto tried not to colour too visibly at the thought.
"I didn't think classical music was your style," Ianto said. Overhead, a speaker chimed softly, and a voice urged the audience members to take their seats for the performance. It was barely audibly over the clamorous noise of hundreds of people speaking at once, but the crowd started to thin, and people followed others nearby, entering the stalls and circles. "More a big band man, swing and jazz."
Jack actually looked a little misty-eyed at the thought. Ianto tried not to smirk. He checked their tickets, and aimed them in the right direction. They were checked by a woman in a neat-as-a-pin uniform, who directed them to go "straight up and to the right".
"I have my classical moments," Jack said, after he'd finally come back from whatever cloud he'd been daydreaming on. Presumably it was one inhabited by Glen Miller. "Not very often, but I have them."
They edged along the narrow rows of seats, muttering apologies to those already seated who had to stand up to let them pass.
"At least that's what you like to tell yourself," Ianto teased, as he draped his coat over the back of his chair and sat down. The seats were of an older design, like the theatre itself. They were slightly smaller and narrower than truly comfortable. But, he recalled vaguely, he had read that the acoustics here were remarkable. Comfort was a small price to pay for sound quality, it seemed.
Jack just grinned at him and pulled a packet of sweets out of his pocket, opening it and offering the contents to Ianto. Unable to resist, he grabbed a handful, chewing slowly as they waited for the auditorium to fill and the lights to go down.
A hush descended as the house lights went down and the stage lights went up. The safety curtain was raised, and there, in the middle of a stage, placed against the backdrop of black draped flecked with tiny lights, to resemble stars, was a grand piano, polished to a high sheen.
There was an appropriate pause, and then a woman emerged from the wings to the sound of polite applause. Ianto had seen photos of her on the news and on the posters outside the theatre, but even though he was removed from her by some distance, he was struck by her physical presence. She was rather tall, a little over six feet in height from what he could guess by comparing her to the piano she came to a stop next to, with thick and long golden hair that curled just slightly at the ends. She wore a silver-grey dress that flowed around her like liquid mercury, and was sufficiently low cut as to leave no one in doubt as to how well-endowed she was. She wore subtle silver and diamond jewellery that glinted in the lights.
"Wow," Ianto heard a man in the row behind him say. He couldn't help but agree.
Oma Valentina curtseyed before the audience, before taking her seat at the piano. She held her hands above the keys for a moment, apparently composing herself with a single deep breath, then she closed her eyes, and started playing.
Music had never been a great part of Ianto's upbringing, certainly not that of the classical variety anyway. Most of his preferred music came from illegal downloads of whatever he'd happened to hear on the radio that he found he liked. He had dated a semi-professional flautist for a few months. She'd had a disconcerting habit of muttering musical terminology while they were having sex, which might have contributed to his unwilling familiarity with the vocabulary, and also why they split up fairly quickly. If Jack had asked, a classical piano concert (although the music was apparently written by Oma Valentina herself rather than being of more familiar stock), would not have been his choice for a date venue. A cinema, yes. A nice restaurant, definitely. This?
His scepticism lasted barely a minute into the performance. It started off slowly, a delicate traipsing of her fingers across notes, in a major key. At first, it was just sounds, vibrations in the air, but then, slowly, he started to feel a sense of wonder. The sound made him think of exploring the vast vaults beneath the Hub, the first time he'd truly been left alone with them. He'd gone from shelf to shelf, pulling out random cartons and reading their contents descriptions. With each new discovery, his sense of wonder at the breadth of creation had been all he could think of. His responsibilities with Lisa, the necessity of lying to Jack, his shit-hole of a life, had all been forgotten as he explored with all the fascination of a child left in a magical forest.
The music grew louder, but infinitesimally. Oma Valentina led the piano through a slow crescendo, the tempo shifting, becoming fast. Wonder became excitement.
It was innocent at first. The high trills made him think of a leave on the breeze and he recalled being a child, chasing an autumnal leaf through the park, laughing as it danced on air, just out of his reach. He had followed it, uncaring of where it was going, knowing only that the thrill of running was far better than ever achieving his goal.
Staccato! A chase! His first proper weevil hunt, running through side streets and back alleys, the air biting his lungs, and the adrenaline pounding in his veins. There was fear there, yes, but it was an undercurrent, a flavour, a subtle harmony line. There was something primal about the chase, something that spoke directly to the part of his brain that was still a primitive, kept hidden and chained by a few thousand years of civilisation and manners.
His breath caught in his throat, and his fingers tightened on the arms of the small, uncomfortable chair.
The music rose up and down, dancing over upper octaves, before darting downwards and back up again. Something stirred deep down. Excitement, the thrill of the chase, the thrill of... of being caught. He felt the hairs raise on the back of his neck. He thought of the kids at school, the ones he'd shared secret, illicit kisses that seemed so daring at the time. He remembered the anxiety and terror of delighted anticipation of asking Lisa out for the first time. He remembered the shocking thrill that had run through him the moment he realised that it wasn't just a way to keep his secrets hidden, but that he actually wanted Jack, wanted him to touch him, wanted him to-
He bit his lip to keep himself from gasping and tried not to shift in his seat.
The music was building, chords thumped out with abandon as Oma Valentina's fingers thundered down on the keys. Crescendo, fortissimo, appassionato.
Pinned beneath Jack, his mind somewhere other than where his body was. His skin on fire where It brushed against the warmth of another Human being. A confusing conglomeration of sensations, of touch, taste, scent. Knowing that there was nowhere he'd rather be at that moment, lips touching lips, striving ever closer to-
A final chord, and suddenly there was no sound but the faint reverberations of sound that echoed about the hall. Ianto blinked, his brain sluggishly catching up to the fact that there was no longer any sound, the spell broken. He wasn't the only one. It was a few seconds before the rest of the audience stirred, and then thunderous applause, a far cry from the polite greeting, resounded. People were on their feet, clapping. Ianto followed suit, and glanced at his watch.
It had only been forty minutes. It had felt like a lifetime.
On the stage, Oma Valentina stood, curtseyed, and announced a brief interval of fifteen minutes, her voice a perfectly warm British contralto, and then she was striding off-stage, leaving the audience to unsteadily make their way to the foyer for drinks or other refreshments.
Ianto turned and looked at Jack, and saw a knowing expression. Ah. Jack had realised as well.
Jack reached out and gripped his hand. "Come on," he said, "Let's get some air."
**
The air outside was cool, and damp with the promise of rain. It was a welcome break from the suddenly unbearable heat inside the theatre. Jack led him around the side of the building, out of sight of prying eyes or security cameras, and pushed him against the wall. Ianto's arms automatically came up around him, as Jack buried his face in the crook of Ianto's neck and breathed deeply.
He stood there, almost vibrating with leftover sensation, soaking up Jack's physical presence, and it was a good minute or two before he trusted himself to speak rationally. His body wasn't anywhere near rational however, pressed up against Jack as he was, and hard. "That's not normal," he said, eventually. "Not in the least."
Jack took a deep breath, apparently calming himself, though when he pulled back so that Ianto could talk to him face to face, he had a brightness to his eyes that hadn't been there before. "You're right. I wasn't sure, of course. There was no way to find out except by sitting in on one of her concerts. It was one of the reasons why I asked you to come." He stroked the side of Ianto's face with his thumb. "You've been trained to recognise mental manipulation. Gwen hasn't."
Ianto groaned slightly, letting his head fall back to thud against the brick wall. "Empathic resonance," he muttered, "Of course." He, and probably everyone else in that theatre, was on a telepathic high, emotions being excited by the music and rebounding between them all, building to a... well... a crescendo.
Jack was staring at Ianto's suddenly exposed throat. "It's not harmful, as far as I can tell," he said, licking his lips quickly. "No one's ever reported ill effects. She doesn't seem to be feeding. But everything is being... enhanced, by whatever mental abilities she has."
He couldn't seem to be able to resist any longer that. Apparently still on the sexual buzz that Ianto was feeling, he bent his head, kissing and gently biting Ianto's throat, causing him to moan briefly, before a small amount of common sense reasserted itself.
"Jack," he managed to say, after a few moments of fumbling, "We're not having sex in an alley."
Jack drew back long enough to give Ianto an impish grin. "Why not? You can bet some people are putting the cubicles in the toilets to good use about now."
Ianto pulled a face. "It smells like piss and vomit. We're not having sex in an alley."
Jack made a noise of disappointment, but reluctantly pulled back, marshalling his thoughts. "Right," he said, casting a disparaging glance at the debris littering the gap between the theatre and the office building next to it.
The empathic high was lessening, letting Ianto think a little clearer. As he pushed Jack away long enough to rearrange his coat to hide his rather obvious excitement, he asked, puzzled, "You said one of the reasons."
Jack looked at him in askance.
"Why you brought me along. Implying that there was more than one reason."
Jack smiled, but it was the softer smile that Ianto rarely saw, the one he had learned to treasure. "Empathic concerts are rare, even centuries from now," he admitted, "I..." He shrugged slightly, as if trying to assign a lesser importance to his words, "I wanted to share it with you."
Ianto stared at him for a long moment, so long that Jack started to look uncomfortable, worried that he'd erred. Then Ianto leaned forward, reaching up a hand to the back of Jack's head, urging him closer, and kissed him. He'd had a certain amount of practice now, and it was a good kiss.
"Let's go," he said, eventually, "Or we'll miss the second half."
**
Aware of what was going on, it was slightly harder to lose himself in the music the way he had in the first half. But Jack leaned towards him slightly, and squeezed his wrist. "Relax," he murmured, "Let go. It's safe, we know that now. We can enjoy it."
Yes. They'd deal with the ramifications of an alien musician later, but there was no reason not to enjoy the rarity while it was here. Oma Valentina had returned to her piano stool, eyes once again closed, music filling the air. Now he knew about it, he could almost detect her empathic presence, drawing the emotions of the audience towards her, but, in the end, he didn't have to relax too much. He was swept away.
If nothing else, Oma Valentina was a beautiful player.
He found his brain following the notes as if they were points on a graph of Rift activity, watching them rise and fall to an unknown pattern that held its own beauty. Perhaps aware of the heights she had driven her audience to in the first half, Oma Valentina began the second in a much slower, more peaceful fashion. It brought to mind images of boat passing over still lakes, of graceful and slow dancing, of rain languidly falling on a winter's afternoon.
Minor notes tripped over themselves, lending a hint of melancholy to the music.
There was a physical ache in his chest, like something had been pulled free, leaving a gaping hole behind. He recognised the sensation, so intimately familiar with it. The echo of grief.
His mum, his dad. Torchwood One, Lisa, Tosh, Owen...
He blinked, and realised he couldn't see the stage. Tears were welling up in his eyes.
He felt a hand slip into his, and he looked down in surprise. Jack had taken his hand, holding it tightly, and Ianto saw the mirroring of unshed tears in Jack's own eyes. On the stage, Oma Valentina's hands, confident and sure, coaxed new strains from the piano strings. A note of hope, an assurance of the future, peace from grief, and life from death.
For one of the only times in his life, Ianto Jones leaned close and, without caring who was watching, kissed Jack Harkness. He didn't care, but, to be fair, neither did anyone else, as many of them were doing exactly the same thing with their partners.
On the stage, Oma Valentina smiled slightly, and played on.
**
"I feel like I've run a marathon," Ianto said, leaning against the wall as Jack fumbled in his pockets, before pulling something small out and, without giving him a chance to refuse, broke it under Ianto's nose.
Ianto jerked away so quickly from the burning stench, swearing, that he nearly clunked his head on the wall. "Some warning next time?" he said, grimacing as if that would help banish the stench of ammonia from his sinuses faster. He suddenly felt a lot sharper, the remnants of the empathic resonance banished.
"Where's the fun in that?" Jack broke a similar capsule under his own nose, drawing back sharply. "Gah," he said, thoroughly disgusted. His eyes were watering.
Ianto coughed, pointedly. "Now you've finished trying to kill me, how about opening the door?"
They had found a fire escape. It wasn't near the stage door, but would lead them backstage, hopefully unseen by the staff. It was the work of a few moments for Jack to use his wrist strap to disconnect the automatic alarm and allow them to open the door without alerting anyone. Fortunately, the part of the theatre they entered into was a side corridor far enough away from the stage that they were hidden from the black-clad technicians who ran about trying to do as fast a post-show cleanup as possible to allow maximum time in the pub.
"She really ran the gamut of emotions," Jack murmured, "It's no wonder you feel drained. Most people don't go through all those emotions in less than two hours."
"You have before though," Ianto deduced, and arched an eyebrow. When Jack turned to respond to that, Ianto just held up a hand and pointed at a hand written sign tacked onto the wall. "Dressing rooms this way," he said.
Jack nodded, accepting the tacit refusal to enter into a discussion, and followed the direction that Ianto indicated. The door they eventually found was recently repainted, and had Oma Valentina's name on it in a neatly etched metal plate. Glancing about to make sure they weren't watched, Jack tried the door. It wasn't locked, and he and Ianto entered easily.
Inside there were bunches of flowers, a dressing table and mirror, a rack for clothes, a long sofa, several cases, and a free-standing electronic piano. Oma Valentina herself was sitting at the dresser, wearing a terrycloth robe and humming to herself, playing an imaginary keyboard, fingers dancing across the tabletop.
Ianto shut the door behind them as Jack said, "There's no specific laws on this planet against empathic manipulation of a mass audience, but I'm willing to bet that it's pretty universally unethical when done without consent."
Oma Valentina gasped, leaping off her chair. Ianto tensed, ready to go for his weapon if she resisted, but instead she immediately fell to her knees, hands outstretched, palms upwards, in a gesture of what looked to be supplication.
"Please," she gasped, "Please don't kill me."
Ianto and Jack glanced at each other. Ianto shrugged helplessly, clueless.
"We weren't going to kill-"
Oma Valentina raised her head. "Please. I did not do anything with deliberation. The empathic resonance, it is unconscious, an artefact of the music. Humans become aroused, they cannot control their pupil dilation, body temperature, heart rate. It is the same for me." She bowed deeply, forehead almost touching the floor. "Please. Please do not kill me. Please do not send me back."
"I..." This hadn't been the response Jack had been expecting. "Oh, for God's sake, get up." He bent down, and took her arm, gently tugging her into standing again. "What are you talking about? We're not here to kill you."
Oma Valentina looked between them. "But... you know I am not of this planet. You are Torchwood, yes?"
Jack jerked his chin slightly in acknowledgement. "That's right."
"I have heard about Torchwood. Bad things. I was worried when my agent told me he had booked Cardiff, but I convinced myself it would be alright." Her eyes widened, pleadingly. "Please, please do not kill me. I have never hurt anyone. I... I only wish to play."
Ianto frowned slightly. If she was lying, it was a rather convincing act. Jack's stance had softened, becoming less confrontational. "You're not Human," he said, gently, "Let's see what you really look like."
Oma Valentina hesitated, then touched the silver bracelet about her wrist, the only piece of jewellery she hadn't removed. There was a brief flicker, and then someone quite different from the tall blonde bombshell was standing before them. She was still the height she had been, but her neck was longer, her shoulders starting further down than a Human's would. Her skin was covered with a pale turquoise fur, and where a Human would have had hair, there were thin fan-like extrusions, three of them in total. She had no ears, or nose, her mouth a lipless slit in the fur, and her eyes were solid black and liquid looking, large and set deep in her skull.
She was still wearing the robe she had been wearing as a Human, but now it showed more of her skin, and it was criss-crossed with thin white scars.
"Oh," Jack said, softly, "You're I'Darini."
"Yes," Oma Valentina said, brokenly, slumping back onto her dresser chair. "Though I fled Indar. The new regime found the musicians too... dangerous."
Jack looked terribly sad. The tragedy was, he would later tell Ianto, when they were curled up together under blankets and the cover of night, was that by his time the I'Darini were extinct, the victims of self-annihilation from an ideological war. The same war, presumably, that had led Oma Valentina to flee.
"Stirring up all that emotional sympathy," he said, "I would imagine most would consider that dangerous. I consider that dangerous."
"I have never harmed anyone," Oma Valentina said, in a bare whisper. "I have only played the music. Each hears it differently. Their emotions are their own. I only intensify the experience."
Jack held his stern appearance a moment longer, then sighed. "It's true," he said. "I've been watching you a while. I had my suspicions. But no one ever reported long term side effects, no one ever walked away from your concert performances anything less than satisfied."
"This world..." Oma Valentina hesitated then, when she saw Jack had no objection to her explaining, continued, "This world has so much music. So much variety. Musicians alone, in concert, evoking emotions on a pale, shallow layer. I spent years wandering, learning the instruments, the methods of evocation. It... it is wonderful."
There was such a breathless note of wonder in her voice, that Ianto's voice caught in his throat. He glanced at Jack.
"Oma Valentina," Jack said, "Is that your real name?"
She shrugged, turquoise fur ruffling in the breeze from the air conditioning. "It is the name I chose. I like it."
"Oma Valentina, how long have you been on this world?"
"Twenty seven years," she answered. Ianto found himself rather startled at the number. "Though I only decided to resume public performances this last year. I finally felt I was ready. I suppose, I felt secure here. Forgive me." She started to slide into that kneeling supplication posture again, but Jack snagged her wrist, arresting the movement.
"None of that. Twenty seven years, huh. Sounds like you're pretty acclimated to this planet."
Oma Valentina stared at him. "It is home," she said, finally.
"Do you want to stay?" Ianto asked, watching her closely.
"Of course!" Oma Valentina asked. "I would be killed if I went back to Indar. But more... I... the music is here. I belong here." She looked between them, her expression seeming to plead with them to understand.
Jack crouched down in front of her. "We'll watch you from now on, you know that?"
Oma Valentina sighed in an all-too-Human fashion. "Yes," she said, "I know." She reached out, running a finger over the edge of her digital piano. Her fingers had no nails on them, and they seemed to have one more joint than a Human hand. "I will miss the music," she added mournfully.
Jack shook his head. "No, you won't."
Oma Valentina's head jerked up sharply to look at him. "You mean-"
"Keep playing, Oma Valentina," Jack said, with a faint smile, "After all, I wouldn't want to deprive the world of the experience we had tonight."
She brightened up, looking pleased for the first time since they had entered the room. Her fur seemed to be nearly standing on end. She looked between Jack and Ianto. "You were in the audience? You felt the music? The resonance?"
"Yes," Ianto murmured, "It was... incredible."
Jack made a sound of agreement.
"Then let me make you a gift," she said.
Jack started to stand. "That's really not neces-"
"Oh, but you must let me." She gave him as doe-eyed a look as was possible with soggy black eyes. "Please. You are letting me keep the music. I must share my thanks with you."
Jack looked at Ianto, who shrugged. What was the harm, he thought.
"Sit, sit." Oma Valentina urged, gesturing them to the sofa, and sitting down at the digital piano.
They sat down, so close that they were pressed against each other at the legs and arms. Both of them were still able to go for a gun if she tried anything, but Oma Valentina did no such thing. Instead she turned on the piano, hummed to herself for a moment, then closed her eyes, and put her fingers to the keyboard.
It was nothing like the concert. That had been conducted in a grand theatre, and this was done on an artificial keyboard in an acoustically dismal dressing room, but somehow it seemed rawer, more real, than what they had heard out there in the audience. They listened, and were drawn into the music, just the two of them, the empathic resonance weaker for it, but somehow more intimate. Jack's arm went around Ianto, and his head on Jack's shoulder, and they listened silently as Oma Valentina played a nocturne made from wonder, gratitude, and love.
~ End ~
Author's Note: I am a somewhat lapsed amateur player of half a dozen instruments, and so one should not take from my sprinkling of musical terminology any sort of sensibility. There were two inspirations for this story. The first was my utter adoration of music, and the way that it has the ability to stir me to all sort of things just by clicking through my playlist. I was a tiresomely nerdish child when it came to such things. When we were allowed to take Walkmans into school, mine was tuned to Classic FM.
The second was sheer annoyance. I don't normally go for out and out deliberately slashy/sappy stories. But I'm afraid I got utterly hacked off by some rather undesirable comments a certain member of my family made regarding the 'gay kissing' in Torchwood. So, even though he'll never read this, it was mostly done to spite him.
I seem to write stories with the intention of spiting people a lot. It seems to be as good an inspiration as any. Contribute to my self-worth! Comment!