Fic: Ghost in this Hub
I seem to have come over all fluffy of late and am going to go lie down in a darkened room until it passes. In the meantime, here be fanfic:
This story has been long in the writing, but it's ultimately the result of a comment from fajrdrako: "If Ianto didn't exist, we would have to invent him."
Title: Ghost in this Hub
Author: jadesfire2808
Words: ~2600
Rating/Spoilers PG/none
Warnings: None, unless fluff makes you sneeze
Characters: Jack/Ianto
Summary: Something's not quite right at Torchwood Three, but it's taking the team a while to get to the bottom of it.
A/N: With thanks as ever to miss_zedem and crystalshard who are always right. Shamelessly cross-posted
Ghost in this Hub
Day Three
No-one had opened the Tourist Office for three days when Gwen finally decided that she should. It was odd, but she was sure it was someone's job to do this. And with Jack as the boss, Owen as the doctor and Tosh the technology whiz, she supposed that only left her. But it just didn't feel right, as though there was an absent presence looking over her shoulder as she refilled the leaflet holders and took down the older posters.
After she'd dealt with her fourth lost tourist of the day, she wondered how the hell she was supposed to do this again tomorrow without the boredom driving her insane. She sighed heavily, jumping as the sound seemed to be echoed, close by her ear. Spinning round, she couldn't see anyone, but there was still that sense, that feeling that she was being watched. Maybe it was just that she wasn't used to working as the public face of Torchwood. Still, she shivered slightly as she went back to her chair behind the desk.
Later, returning after a quick comfort break, she found that the leaflets on the counter had been re-arranged, which didn't surprise her a bit. There'd been a really strong draft in the room all morning. Lying on the top was a flyer for a production of Carmen Jones at one of the city's small theatres. She picked it up, staring at the name of the show for a long moment. Although she was sure she hadn't been to see it, there was something naggingly familiar about the name.
With a smile, she dropped the leaflet back onto the pile and scooped the whole lot into the recycling, chiding herself for being daft. Something familiar about the name Jones? In Cardiff? It would have been weirder if it didn't ring any bells - there had been five Joneses in her year at school and four when she was doing her police training.
But still, as she looked down at the red and black leaflet, there was something else, right on the tip of her brain. Shaking her head, she turned the sign on the door to 'closed' and headed down into the Hub.
Day Four
Tosh hated feeling stupid. She could speak six languages fluently, calculate complex algorithms in her head, and, if necessary, rebuild the whole Hub's computer system from scratch. But right now, she felt about ready to burst into tears from of sheer frustration. Instead, she glared at her nemesis, as though channelling the frustration into anger was going to intimidate it into surrender.
The coffee machine appeared unmoved.
"Tosh?" That was the third time Owen had yelled her name in the past ten minutes, and he sounded increasingly annoyed each time.
"In a minute!" she called back, picking up the jar of coffee and frowning at the machine again. This was ridiculous. How could no-one know how to work the damn thing? The results of Gwen's attempt had been so weak that Owen had threatened to prescribe it a vitamin supplement, while Jack's had come in handy for clearing the sink in the gents. Owen refused to venture into the kitchen and so it had fallen to Tosh to make a final assault on the infernal contraption. If she could just work out how to get it open...
"Tosh, out here, now!" Jack's voice didn't allow for any argument and Tosh put the jar down on the counter, wagging her finger at the machine before leaving.
"I'm not done with you yet."
When she returned from purging the system of yet another virus that Owen had managed to download under the promise of "hawt alien pr0n", she picked up the coffee jar and rounded on the machine, determined not to be thwarted this time. But instead of the dark, silent beast that she'd expected, the machine appeared to have undergone a magical transformation. The lid was raised and, when she looked in, it was full of fresh water. At the front, the filter holder that had stubbornly refused to budge had been neatly swung out and topped up with coffee.
She jumped as there was a clicking sound from behind her and she turned to see steam pouring from the spout of the kettle; in her surprise, she hadn't heard it boiling. As though in a dream, she picked it up and drizzled a little hot water on the fresh grounds. Then she pushed the filter closed, hearing it give a satisfying click as it locked into place. Closing the lid, she flicked the little switch, waiting for a few seconds before pushing the jug into place to catch the hot liquid.
As the room filled with the most wonderful aroma, she wondered how she'd suddenly known how to do all that. It was as though she was remembering what she'd seen someone else do, at some point. But she hadn't known before. Had she?
Day Five
In theory, Owen knew, there was a place for everything. Scalpels, tweezers, scissors, needles and all the other tools of his trade belonged in the various drawers and cupboards in the autopsy room. It was a good theory. He liked the theory. It meant that he could always lay his hands on what he needed, when he needed it. The dirty things went away and the clean ones sat in their neat little boxes until they were wanted.
What Owen was struggling with was the practice. When he'd cleared up yesterday, he could have sworn he'd put the new set of forceps in the fourth drawer down, with his stethoscope and a packet of gauze. Instead, all he was coming up with was a pile of suspiciously coloured cotton wool balls and what looked worryingly like a piece of used chewing gum.
Opening other drawers didn't seem to be doing him much good either. He hadn't noticed how low he was on disposable syringes, nor that he hadn't quite put the lid back on a bottle properly, so that half the contents had evaporated. He really needed to keep better track of these things.
He was still scrabbling around looking for what he needed when there was a yelp from the main Hub, then Jack shouting something unintelligible. Grabbing his bag, which at least was half-stocked, Owen hurried up the steps to see what was going on.
Half an hour later, he was satisfied that Tosh didn't have more than a nasty cut, and that the knock from the piece of twisted metal that Myfanwy had dropped onto her almost certainly hadn't caused concussion. Head wounds always bled like crazy, and although her computer might never recover from the experience, she would.
He dropped his bag down onto the bench, sighing and resting his hands on his hips as he looked round the room again. The words 'needle' and 'haystack' were uppermost in his mind, until he opened the top drawer again. There, just where it should have been, was a pile of new scalpels, all in sterile packets, beside an equally neat pile of syringes. Opening the next drawer down, he found similar tidiness, which continued all the way down to the fourth drawer where, to his mild shock, he found the forceps, stethoscope and, yes, even the gauze.
He closed his mouth as he pushed the drawer shut, looking round the room again. The yellow hazardous waste bag had been emptied or replaced and the metal surfaces definitely looked shinier than before. Apparently he'd been visited by the cleaning fairy.
There was something about the phrase that amused him more than it should have done and he frowned, trying to track down whatever it was that was making him smile. Nothing. No hint of why the smell of cleaning fluid was resonating somewhere at the back of his mind or why there was a faint hint of annoyance in his general amusement.
Shrugging, he took his coat from its hook and started to pull it on. If there was nothing left to do here, he might as well go for a drink.
Day Six
There was no such thing as a day of rest for Torchwood, but Jack encouraged the team not to come in on a Sunday. They skirted dangerously close to burn out as it was, and he didn't want to encourage them. And, if he was honest, he liked having a day with the place to himself, just to potter around the Hub, tidy up the bits and pieces that he couldn't do while they were there, and carry out the private research that was only important to him.
He was running the fifth scan of the morning when the door to his office swung open, rustling the papers on his desk. He'd noticed it had been doing that all week, although as far as he knew there weren't any draughts in the Hub and the hinges had looked fine when he'd inspected them. Stretching, he decided that it was a sign he needed a break, and he headed over to the ladder down to his quarters, intending to bring a book back up with him. The scan was going to take a while anyway.
Downstairs, he ran a finger along the shelf as he tried to choose something, noticing how the dust had built up. He was really going to have to bring a duster down here one of these days. Amazing how quickly it had built up, consider it had only been cleaned a week ago.
Frowning, Jack shook his head. That couldn't be right. He didn't remember doing that and yet he knew, absolutely, that the shelf had been cleaned a week ago. If it hadn't been him, who had done it? His quarters were out of bounds to the rest of the staff, not that any of them had ever tried to come down here. Had they?
Confused, Jack turned away from the books, heading through into the small kitchen that he'd rigged up as best he could. He was feeling quite dazed now, as though he'd had too much to drink, and he opened the cupboards without really knowing what he was looking for. Plates, mugs, glasses- Glasses. Reaching out, Jack took down two long-stemmed wine glasses, much finer and more delicate than the robust tumblers he used for water. He lifted one of them to the light, watching the sparks play across the cut edges. It had had red wine in it at some point, he remembered. Both glasses had. But he didn't drink on his own, and no-one ever came down here. Ever.
Jack put the glasses down quickly, before the dizziness could make him drop them. There was something, right on the edge of his memory that he couldn't quite get at. Stumbling back into the main room, he looked around again, trying to work out what was making him feel so awful. Maybe a gas leak or something in the water. As he staggered towards the ladder, wondering how on earth he was going to get up it, he glanced towards the bookshelves. And stopped dead.
The line of dust along the front of the shelf was gone, and a duster and can of polish were sitting on the floor. One of the books had been pulled forwards, and Jack's hand shook as he reached out to take it.
"Mabinogion," he read aloud, remembering how Ianto had mocked him mercilessly the first time he'd tried to pronounce the word.
Ianto.
The book fell from Jack's hands as he spun round, suddenly aware of the other presence in the room. Ianto was sitting in the single armchair, knees drawn up and his face pressed to them. He lifted his head at the sound of his name.
"Ianto."
"Jack?" There was a brief, silent moment, then Ianto was out of the chair, meeting Jack half-way across the room and clinging to him for dear life. "You can see me?"
"I can now." Jack ran his hands up and down Ianto's arms, feeling the memories come crashing back into his mind. "Ianto. What the hell?"
"I don't know!" Relief was making Ianto talk at twice his normal speed, and Jack struggled to keep up. "There was this thing, this box that Tosh found. She said it was harmless, that it was some kind of computer but that it wasn't working and that it should go in the archive, so I took it downstairs to put it in a box only it lit up when I took it into the store room and then there was this flash of light and then-" He broke off, tightening his grip on Jack's arms. "You can really see me? I'm not imagining it? I thought I was going mad."
Very gently, Jack pulled Ianto towards him, simultaneously putting a stop to the babbling and proving that he was very real and very pleased to see him.
When they broke for air, Ianto shook his head. "I didn't know what to do, so I just hung around, trying to do my job, like before, but no-one seemed to be able to see me."
"Let's have a look at this box of yours."
Up in the main Hub, it took ten minutes of banging, wrestling and swearing to get the lid off the box.
"From what you've told me," Jack said, "it works like the perception filter for the lift, only it affects the memory as well."
"Then how can you see me?"
Jack shrugged. "If it's just an influence, a suggestion, then it can be broken. Just like when people who've been retconned see something that triggers the suppressed memory. A-ha."
Ianto gave him a startled look. "You know what it is?"
"Not a clue, but I think our best plan is to do this." Reaching over to the workbench, Jack picked up an insulated screwdriver and, taking careful aim and with considerable precision, drove it into what had to be the energy cell. There was a brief, mournful buzzing, then all the box's lights went out. Jack gave Ianto a triumphant smile. "I think it's dead."
Peering into the box, Ianto frowned. "How can we tell?"
"I guess we won't really know until tomorrow, when the others get here."
"We could call them," Ianto said earnestly. "Just to see." He stopped, seeing Jack's face. "Look, if you'd spent the last week as a ghost in your own workplace-"
"There's all kinds of things I would have made sure I'd seen," Jack interrupted. "Did you see anything interesting, Ianto?"
A slow smile spread across Ianto's face, and let Jack draw him closer.
"Oh, all kinds of things."
"Mmmmm hmmmm?"
Ianto's lips were close enough to Jack's ear now that he didn't even have to turn his head as he whispered. His words made Jack raise an eyebrow.
"Is that so? You'll have to tell me all about it later."
"Not now?"
"Nope." Jack was already walking towards his office and the hatch down to his quarters. "Right now, I think we need to make sure that I can really see you." He paused, before going on, emphasising the words carefully. "Every. Last. Inch."
This story has been long in the writing, but it's ultimately the result of a comment from fajrdrako: "If Ianto didn't exist, we would have to invent him."
Title: Ghost in this Hub
Author: jadesfire2808
Words: ~2600
Rating/Spoilers PG/none
Warnings: None, unless fluff makes you sneeze
Characters: Jack/Ianto
Summary: Something's not quite right at Torchwood Three, but it's taking the team a while to get to the bottom of it.
A/N: With thanks as ever to miss_zedem and crystalshard who are always right. Shamelessly cross-posted
Ghost in this Hub
Day Three
No-one had opened the Tourist Office for three days when Gwen finally decided that she should. It was odd, but she was sure it was someone's job to do this. And with Jack as the boss, Owen as the doctor and Tosh the technology whiz, she supposed that only left her. But it just didn't feel right, as though there was an absent presence looking over her shoulder as she refilled the leaflet holders and took down the older posters.
After she'd dealt with her fourth lost tourist of the day, she wondered how the hell she was supposed to do this again tomorrow without the boredom driving her insane. She sighed heavily, jumping as the sound seemed to be echoed, close by her ear. Spinning round, she couldn't see anyone, but there was still that sense, that feeling that she was being watched. Maybe it was just that she wasn't used to working as the public face of Torchwood. Still, she shivered slightly as she went back to her chair behind the desk.
Later, returning after a quick comfort break, she found that the leaflets on the counter had been re-arranged, which didn't surprise her a bit. There'd been a really strong draft in the room all morning. Lying on the top was a flyer for a production of Carmen Jones at one of the city's small theatres. She picked it up, staring at the name of the show for a long moment. Although she was sure she hadn't been to see it, there was something naggingly familiar about the name.
With a smile, she dropped the leaflet back onto the pile and scooped the whole lot into the recycling, chiding herself for being daft. Something familiar about the name Jones? In Cardiff? It would have been weirder if it didn't ring any bells - there had been five Joneses in her year at school and four when she was doing her police training.
But still, as she looked down at the red and black leaflet, there was something else, right on the tip of her brain. Shaking her head, she turned the sign on the door to 'closed' and headed down into the Hub.
Day Four
Tosh hated feeling stupid. She could speak six languages fluently, calculate complex algorithms in her head, and, if necessary, rebuild the whole Hub's computer system from scratch. But right now, she felt about ready to burst into tears from of sheer frustration. Instead, she glared at her nemesis, as though channelling the frustration into anger was going to intimidate it into surrender.
The coffee machine appeared unmoved.
"Tosh?" That was the third time Owen had yelled her name in the past ten minutes, and he sounded increasingly annoyed each time.
"In a minute!" she called back, picking up the jar of coffee and frowning at the machine again. This was ridiculous. How could no-one know how to work the damn thing? The results of Gwen's attempt had been so weak that Owen had threatened to prescribe it a vitamin supplement, while Jack's had come in handy for clearing the sink in the gents. Owen refused to venture into the kitchen and so it had fallen to Tosh to make a final assault on the infernal contraption. If she could just work out how to get it open...
"Tosh, out here, now!" Jack's voice didn't allow for any argument and Tosh put the jar down on the counter, wagging her finger at the machine before leaving.
"I'm not done with you yet."
When she returned from purging the system of yet another virus that Owen had managed to download under the promise of "hawt alien pr0n", she picked up the coffee jar and rounded on the machine, determined not to be thwarted this time. But instead of the dark, silent beast that she'd expected, the machine appeared to have undergone a magical transformation. The lid was raised and, when she looked in, it was full of fresh water. At the front, the filter holder that had stubbornly refused to budge had been neatly swung out and topped up with coffee.
She jumped as there was a clicking sound from behind her and she turned to see steam pouring from the spout of the kettle; in her surprise, she hadn't heard it boiling. As though in a dream, she picked it up and drizzled a little hot water on the fresh grounds. Then she pushed the filter closed, hearing it give a satisfying click as it locked into place. Closing the lid, she flicked the little switch, waiting for a few seconds before pushing the jug into place to catch the hot liquid.
As the room filled with the most wonderful aroma, she wondered how she'd suddenly known how to do all that. It was as though she was remembering what she'd seen someone else do, at some point. But she hadn't known before. Had she?
Day Five
In theory, Owen knew, there was a place for everything. Scalpels, tweezers, scissors, needles and all the other tools of his trade belonged in the various drawers and cupboards in the autopsy room. It was a good theory. He liked the theory. It meant that he could always lay his hands on what he needed, when he needed it. The dirty things went away and the clean ones sat in their neat little boxes until they were wanted.
What Owen was struggling with was the practice. When he'd cleared up yesterday, he could have sworn he'd put the new set of forceps in the fourth drawer down, with his stethoscope and a packet of gauze. Instead, all he was coming up with was a pile of suspiciously coloured cotton wool balls and what looked worryingly like a piece of used chewing gum.
Opening other drawers didn't seem to be doing him much good either. He hadn't noticed how low he was on disposable syringes, nor that he hadn't quite put the lid back on a bottle properly, so that half the contents had evaporated. He really needed to keep better track of these things.
He was still scrabbling around looking for what he needed when there was a yelp from the main Hub, then Jack shouting something unintelligible. Grabbing his bag, which at least was half-stocked, Owen hurried up the steps to see what was going on.
Half an hour later, he was satisfied that Tosh didn't have more than a nasty cut, and that the knock from the piece of twisted metal that Myfanwy had dropped onto her almost certainly hadn't caused concussion. Head wounds always bled like crazy, and although her computer might never recover from the experience, she would.
He dropped his bag down onto the bench, sighing and resting his hands on his hips as he looked round the room again. The words 'needle' and 'haystack' were uppermost in his mind, until he opened the top drawer again. There, just where it should have been, was a pile of new scalpels, all in sterile packets, beside an equally neat pile of syringes. Opening the next drawer down, he found similar tidiness, which continued all the way down to the fourth drawer where, to his mild shock, he found the forceps, stethoscope and, yes, even the gauze.
He closed his mouth as he pushed the drawer shut, looking round the room again. The yellow hazardous waste bag had been emptied or replaced and the metal surfaces definitely looked shinier than before. Apparently he'd been visited by the cleaning fairy.
There was something about the phrase that amused him more than it should have done and he frowned, trying to track down whatever it was that was making him smile. Nothing. No hint of why the smell of cleaning fluid was resonating somewhere at the back of his mind or why there was a faint hint of annoyance in his general amusement.
Shrugging, he took his coat from its hook and started to pull it on. If there was nothing left to do here, he might as well go for a drink.
Day Six
There was no such thing as a day of rest for Torchwood, but Jack encouraged the team not to come in on a Sunday. They skirted dangerously close to burn out as it was, and he didn't want to encourage them. And, if he was honest, he liked having a day with the place to himself, just to potter around the Hub, tidy up the bits and pieces that he couldn't do while they were there, and carry out the private research that was only important to him.
He was running the fifth scan of the morning when the door to his office swung open, rustling the papers on his desk. He'd noticed it had been doing that all week, although as far as he knew there weren't any draughts in the Hub and the hinges had looked fine when he'd inspected them. Stretching, he decided that it was a sign he needed a break, and he headed over to the ladder down to his quarters, intending to bring a book back up with him. The scan was going to take a while anyway.
Downstairs, he ran a finger along the shelf as he tried to choose something, noticing how the dust had built up. He was really going to have to bring a duster down here one of these days. Amazing how quickly it had built up, consider it had only been cleaned a week ago.
Frowning, Jack shook his head. That couldn't be right. He didn't remember doing that and yet he knew, absolutely, that the shelf had been cleaned a week ago. If it hadn't been him, who had done it? His quarters were out of bounds to the rest of the staff, not that any of them had ever tried to come down here. Had they?
Confused, Jack turned away from the books, heading through into the small kitchen that he'd rigged up as best he could. He was feeling quite dazed now, as though he'd had too much to drink, and he opened the cupboards without really knowing what he was looking for. Plates, mugs, glasses- Glasses. Reaching out, Jack took down two long-stemmed wine glasses, much finer and more delicate than the robust tumblers he used for water. He lifted one of them to the light, watching the sparks play across the cut edges. It had had red wine in it at some point, he remembered. Both glasses had. But he didn't drink on his own, and no-one ever came down here. Ever.
Jack put the glasses down quickly, before the dizziness could make him drop them. There was something, right on the edge of his memory that he couldn't quite get at. Stumbling back into the main room, he looked around again, trying to work out what was making him feel so awful. Maybe a gas leak or something in the water. As he staggered towards the ladder, wondering how on earth he was going to get up it, he glanced towards the bookshelves. And stopped dead.
The line of dust along the front of the shelf was gone, and a duster and can of polish were sitting on the floor. One of the books had been pulled forwards, and Jack's hand shook as he reached out to take it.
"Mabinogion," he read aloud, remembering how Ianto had mocked him mercilessly the first time he'd tried to pronounce the word.
Ianto.
The book fell from Jack's hands as he spun round, suddenly aware of the other presence in the room. Ianto was sitting in the single armchair, knees drawn up and his face pressed to them. He lifted his head at the sound of his name.
"Ianto."
"Jack?" There was a brief, silent moment, then Ianto was out of the chair, meeting Jack half-way across the room and clinging to him for dear life. "You can see me?"
"I can now." Jack ran his hands up and down Ianto's arms, feeling the memories come crashing back into his mind. "Ianto. What the hell?"
"I don't know!" Relief was making Ianto talk at twice his normal speed, and Jack struggled to keep up. "There was this thing, this box that Tosh found. She said it was harmless, that it was some kind of computer but that it wasn't working and that it should go in the archive, so I took it downstairs to put it in a box only it lit up when I took it into the store room and then there was this flash of light and then-" He broke off, tightening his grip on Jack's arms. "You can really see me? I'm not imagining it? I thought I was going mad."
Very gently, Jack pulled Ianto towards him, simultaneously putting a stop to the babbling and proving that he was very real and very pleased to see him.
When they broke for air, Ianto shook his head. "I didn't know what to do, so I just hung around, trying to do my job, like before, but no-one seemed to be able to see me."
"Let's have a look at this box of yours."
Up in the main Hub, it took ten minutes of banging, wrestling and swearing to get the lid off the box.
"From what you've told me," Jack said, "it works like the perception filter for the lift, only it affects the memory as well."
"Then how can you see me?"
Jack shrugged. "If it's just an influence, a suggestion, then it can be broken. Just like when people who've been retconned see something that triggers the suppressed memory. A-ha."
Ianto gave him a startled look. "You know what it is?"
"Not a clue, but I think our best plan is to do this." Reaching over to the workbench, Jack picked up an insulated screwdriver and, taking careful aim and with considerable precision, drove it into what had to be the energy cell. There was a brief, mournful buzzing, then all the box's lights went out. Jack gave Ianto a triumphant smile. "I think it's dead."
Peering into the box, Ianto frowned. "How can we tell?"
"I guess we won't really know until tomorrow, when the others get here."
"We could call them," Ianto said earnestly. "Just to see." He stopped, seeing Jack's face. "Look, if you'd spent the last week as a ghost in your own workplace-"
"There's all kinds of things I would have made sure I'd seen," Jack interrupted. "Did you see anything interesting, Ianto?"
A slow smile spread across Ianto's face, and let Jack draw him closer.
"Oh, all kinds of things."
"Mmmmm hmmmm?"
Ianto's lips were close enough to Jack's ear now that he didn't even have to turn his head as he whispered. His words made Jack raise an eyebrow.
"Is that so? You'll have to tell me all about it later."
"Not now?"
"Nope." Jack was already walking towards his office and the hatch down to his quarters. "Right now, I think we need to make sure that I can really see you." He paused, before going on, emphasising the words carefully. "Every. Last. Inch."