The Principia Tescordia, Parts III & IV
Continued from the previous post...
"Ok, nobody panic, nobody move." Jack stepped out into the aisle and took quick stock of the situation. "My name is Captain Jack Harkness. I'm here to help you, but you're going to need to let--" he peered at the name badge-- "to let Gladys here go."
"You can't help!" the alien barked, Its voice sounding almost perfectly human. Almost.
"I'm from an organization called Torchwood." He took another slow and cautious step forward. "We can help you. But you're going to have to trust me, and let Gladys go. Now, why don't you start by telling me your name, your home planet, and how you got here."
This was met with a scornful snort. "Torchwood!Oh, I've heard of you lot. I'll take my chances with the Judoon, thank you very much! Now back off and let my minions do their work." She pressed pistol harder against Gladys' head, and the woman let out a pinched whimper.
Ok, that went well. "Um, I'm sorry: minions? Royalty usually don't resort to hostage-taking on this planet."
The alien's eyes flashed and the image of Thyrene Kolsaavaar wavered as the alien's concentration faltered. God, he had forgotten how much fun Kolsaavaarian singers could be. Three lungs! Incredible breath control. They hadn't done Christmas on Kolsaavaar, but they did have one hell of a Spring fertility festival...
"I am not mere royalty," the alien hissed. The shape of Thyrene Kolsaavaar snapped back into place and sharpened into perfect resolution. "I am Eris, Goddess of Discord! The Mighty Daughter of Night!"
It was Jack's turn to snort. "You're a Sharkhûla tourist running a half-assed con and stealing processed meats from a supermarket. And if there's anything I'm an expert at, it's spotting half-assed cons. Now, let's say you let Gladys go, you tell your 'minions' to drop the salamis, and we'll end this nicely."
"Do you doubt me?" The alien's face had twisted into a malevolent sneer. Off to one side, an older man carrying a bulk pack of bathroom tissue tried to back unobtrusively away from the scene. "Then I must demonstrate my power!" A blue flash from the pistol, a shriek from Gladys, and the old man and his loo roll vanished. Vaporized.
The shoppers screamed and scattered every which way, and in the panic-- the chaos, Jack corrected, the thought a sardonic prickle in his mind -- a mad tide of human terror surged toward the doors. Out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw Gwen flatten herself up against a shelf of baby formula to keep from getting pulled into the throng. Her calls for calm and orderly egress went completely unheeded.
"If you couldn't foresee that happening, you're not a very omniscient Goddess," Jack chided. The Webley slid easily from its holster, its heft familiar in his hand when he leveled it at the alien's head. When this call had come in, he had already broken out the Christmas scotch (Macallan, 1926) and the Christmas handcuffs (hypersteel, shiny) and he had come up with a whole list of ideas about how he was gonna put Ianto in the Christmas spirit (scotch, handcuffs). But as it stood now Ianto was back at the hub, sober and unrestrained, and he was in Tescos with a gun-toting, hostage-holding Sharkhûla with a couple of twentysomething "minions" and a fetish for phallic meat products. Under other circumstances, this would have been an entertaining Saturday night. And under other circumstances, he he might also have just taken his shot and been done with it, but now there was collateral damage to consider. If the Sharkhûla so much as twitched its finger on the trigger, it would take Gladys out, too. That was an unacceptable risk. "Ok. Now we're gonna have to get serious, because I'm really running out of patience."
The sneer on the Sharkhûla's face shrank to a nasty little smirk. "Oh, but I am the Goddess of Chaos, Captain Jack Harkness of Torchwood. And I can turn your sorry little world on its ear."
"Oh really? Prove it."
The alien raised the tubular pendant she was wearing around her neck and he instinctively cocked the gun. The thing looked almost like a dog whistle, and he geared himself for sonic torment. Or death, but that was only a temporary inconvenience in the great scheme of things, one which might actually provide enough distraction for Gwen to take control of the situation. When the dog whistle came up to the alien's lips Gwen shouted a warning that he had no good way of acknowledging (way to stay hidden, kiddo), but all that happened was that the Sharkhûla blew at him, then turned and blew at Gwen, who was now standing in the open. No noise, no flash, no boom.
"And this proves what, now?" he asked smugly. He threw a quick, appraising glance toward Gwen-- she was fine-- then checked Gladys.
Gladys.
Beautiful, desirable, exquisite Gladys. He holstered his Webley smoothly and took a step toward her. Toward that lovely face, haloed in candyfloss. Oh, Gladys.
The Sharkhûla jerked backward, dragging Gladys with her.
"Ah-ah-ah, Captain. If you love Gladys-- and I think you do-- you'll want her to be safe, and if you want her to be safe, you'll keep your distance and let me leave."
"Jack!" Gwen barked. "You love her? How could you!"
Gwen sounded terribly affronted, but Jack didn't particularly care. Fuck Gwen and her self-righteous humanity. He couldn't be bothered with that rubbish-- not when Gladys was right there in front of him, looking at him with those enormous, highly-magnified, brown eyes. "Yes, Gwen. I love her. I love Gladys. Is that a problem for you?"
He was so intent on Gladys, on her sweet, bewildered face, that he didn't even notice Gwen flying toward him until she made contact with a full-body blow. He went sailing backward into cardboard display of Walker's Crisps and came to a hard landing with Gwen astride his chest. Before Gladys, he might have wondered at his good luck and hoped Ianto was feeling open-minded. As it was, it just hacked him off.
"You great bloody bastard!" Gwen lashed out like a girl, smacking and swatting. Her Christmas crown began to sag over her eyes, but even when it slumped over her fringe and obscured her vision, she continued to flail at him. "Gladys is mine, Jack Harkness! Do you hear me, you pathetic little man-whore? You can't have her! I won't let you!"
"You think you can stop me?" The feral rush of adrenaline thrilled through him. "Bring it on!"
Fortunately, Gwen's mobile started trilling again, and she seemed to regain her senses long enough to stop pummeling Jack (who, to his credit, had not hit her back-- yet) and climb off.
"What?" she answered sharply. "No, Rhys, I don't know why the Santas are breaking windows. It's Christmas. They're celebrating. I don't know, maybe too much eggnog. That's what Santas do, yeah? Look, I've got to go. Gladys needs me. I love her, Rhys, and I am not about to let Jack think he can steal her out from under my nose."
Jack could hear Rhys roaring through the mobile from where he lay amongst the crisps packets. "Who the hell is Gladys?!?"
He turned his head, wincing-- a lump was swelling on the back of it-- and looked over at Gladys. He imagined how she'd look in his bed wearing nothing but her support stockings and the hypersteel handcuffs, and he smiled a filthy and anticipatory smile.
Gladys, still at the mercy of the alien's gun, didn't seem to know if she should look terrified or flattered.
Ianto was more than a little surprised when he saw Williams, Rhys crop up the screen of his mobile. Shouldn't have been, he considered. He'd already seen Owen in a Christmas jumper; after that, the Four Horseman of the Apocalypse riding through Cardiff on oversized unicycles shouldn't have come as a shock.
"Ianto, mate, it's Rhys. Gwen's husband."
Ianto looked askance at his handset. "Yes, Rhys, I'm well aware who you are."
"Yeah, well, apparently my wife isn't! And if Gwen thinks she's getting a mince pie after telling me she's in love with another woman, she's can kiss my pasty Welsh arse, I can tell you that!"
Ianto listened very patiently as Rhys ranted in progressively louder tones about pillaging Santas in Roath, and mince pies, and someone named Gladys for whom Gwen had just professed undying love.
"Rhys," he interrupted cautiously. "Is it--I mean, do you believe it's--Christmas?"
There was a pregnant pause before Rhys exploded.
"No! No it's bloody well NOT Christmas! It's MAY, for fuck's sake! I'm looking right here at the calendar, and it's MAY!"
"Unfortunately," Ianto sighed, "I think you and I might be the only people left in Cardiff who believe that."
Something brushed up against his trouser leg, beguiling as a cat. He looked down.
PULL ME!!!
It was the gold sodding Christmas cracker.
"I've got to go, Rhys. I'll be in touch." He shoved his mobile deep into his pocket and faced off with the cracker. "I have had just about enough of you," he told it sharply. It did not look even the slightest bit abashed.
He fetched a broom and batted it into an electrical cupboard, then wedged a chair under the door handle. That was when it occurred to him that it had been nothing but radio silence since Jack and Gwen had left for Tescos. When he got back to his desk, he keyed into the communications system.
"Everything under control out there, sir?
Jack's reply came across as distracted and vaguely annoyed. "Yeah, Ianto. Everything's fine. Listen, I'm with Gladys, and I really don't want to have to divide my attention--"
"Ah. Gladys. Of course. Er... Who's Gladys?"
"Dammit, Ianto, she's the woman I love, and I don't have time to do some sort of 21st century jealous boyfriend trip with you, ok? We had a good run, but Gladys... She's.... She's...Oh, Gladys-- She's the woman I want to marry, Ianto!"
"Righto!" Ianto said brightly in his most unaffected voice. "Well, I'll just let you get back to Gladys, then. No hard feelings. Ta!"
He immediately rang back Rhys.
"Be outside Millennium Stadium in fifteen minutes. Bring a lorry."
The Harwoods Haulage lorry roared down the streets like an angry bear, wheels only barely maintaining their grip on the tarmac as Rhys made the sharp turn into the Tescos car park and angled it to face the automatic doors. He shifted gears and gunned the engine a couple of times for effect, a bull pawing the earth and only waiting for the right moment to charge the matador and run him flat. Reflected in the windscreen, his face was the very picture of grim determination.
Determination, which turned very quickly into childlike disappointment.
"The bloody doors are wide open!"
Ianto nodded. "Sorry. I know you were looking forward to ramming something."
Rhys turned to him with a cocked head and a furrowed brow. "You know, I really was."
Abandoning their plans for a grand, if violent, entrance, they jogged briskly into the store and surveyed the situation before hunkering down among the tinned goods. At least if it turns into a standoff, we'll have the tinned peas to keep our spirits up. He could see both Jack and Gwen on their knees on the floor, grasping at the thick legs of an elderly Tesco cashier, who, in turn, was being held at gunpoint by a woman that, to Ianto, looked a bit like Catherine Tate.
All in all, he thought, there were worse ways to go.
"That's Gladys?" Rhys hissed despairingly. "Bad enough my wife's gone off men, but I was at least hoping it would be for a fit woman! Thought maybe I could talk her into having a bit of a--" he stopped and cleared his throat. "Anyway, that one's older than me mam and has got legs like a piano! It's enough to give a man a complex!"
The utterly besotted expression on Jack's face made Ianto's stomach roil. "Agreed. Now we need a plan. I've got to disarm Cath...er... the alien, and we'll need to get Jack and Gwen and Gladys out of there. I think it's safe to say they're under some sort of mental duress."
"Wait here. I'll nick a bottle or two of rum off the shelves." Rhys canted his head toward the wine and spirits department.
"And do what with them? Drink away the pain?"
Rhys rolled his eyes. "Molotov cocktails! Instant distraction!"
Ianto noticed that Rhys was staring rather pointedly at his tie and seeing, evidently, a very convenient wick. "Molotov cocktails, instant inferno," he corrected. "And please stop looking expectantly at my tie."
Owen ran as fast as he could, dragging Toshiko behind him. One of the few benefits of being dead was that he didn't get out of breath very easily. At all, actually. The same couldn't be said for Tosh. He jerked her into the recessed doorway of a sweets shop and pulled his gun, ready for anything. He could hear the revelers going in and out of the vandalized storefronts. Merry Christmas Everybody continued to ring out from the sorry little radio like a spiteful chorus.
"He's big, He's red, He’ll drink until he’s dead," the looters sang, loud and out of key. "Santa Claus, Santa Claus!"
"I'm all for feeling the joy of the season, but this has really got out of hand."
"He's fat, He's round, He’s taking over town...Santa Claus, Santa Claus!"
One of the barbarian Santas dashed past, a pillowcase loaded with pilfered goods flung over his back. Owen grabbed the furry hem of his coat as he flew by and held tight. When he swung around to see what had stopped him, the weight of his plunder threw him off balance and he went down in a pile of red plush.
"Oi! Lemme up! Santa's on the move!" the man barked, and tried to stand. Owen pushed him back down.
"Why don't you tell us what this is about first, yeah? I didn't realize Santa was into larceny."
The man only growled like a wild thing, scrambled to his feet, and gave Owen a shove. Owen reeled backward but caught himself, and drew back his fist, ready to throw a punch.
Tosh gasped. "Owen, no! Your hand!"
Fuck. He grimaced, and put his hand down. The Santa, too, seemed to pause... just long enough for Owen to down him with a flying tackle. The pillowcase flew out of his hands and some PVC knickers and lacy suspenders flew across the sidewalk.
So that's what what he gets up to with the elves, Owen sniggered. Naughty or nice my arse!
In the melee that followed, Santa lost his cap, and Owen his crown. After a moment, they... just stopped.
"Bloody hell," the man whimpered, his voice pitched so high Owen wondered if he had accidentally kneed the poor sod in the bollocks. "What the fuck am I doing dressed like Santa? What the hell is going on?" The horror and confusion on his face was perfectly genuine. "And Jesus, mate... that jumper!"
It was only when Owen stood to help his erstwhile combatant to his feet that he realized he was wearing the most hideous, most alarming, most offensively cheerful Christmas jumper in all of Wales.
"Toshiko."
"Yes?"
"Who put this on me? Is this some sort of sick joke? Did Ianto do this, because so help me if he did--"
"You put it on, Owen," Tosh looked perplexed. The little red light on Rudolph's nose blinked on and off, on and off, against her shirt. "It's Christmas! You wanted to be festive!"
"WHEN HAVE I EVER WANTED TO BE FESTIVE, TOSH?!?!" He shouted, and in a fit of temper, ripped that stupid paper crown off her head. She cried out in umbrage and smacked him hard on the arm, but then a look of puzzlement passed over her face, as if she knew she was upset but couldn't quite figure out why.
"Got your PDA?" Owen asked irritably. "Run this." He shoved the wrinkled remains of her crown into her free hand.
"I don't understand," she said desperately. "It's not picking up anything!" She made a few adjustments, and tried again. "Oh god! There is something here! It's some sort of transmitter. I can't see it, but it's here! It's somewhere on the crown!"
"Uh, pardon, but I still don't understand why I'm dressed like this," the Santa said unhappily.
"No worries, mate," Owen told him, slapping him companionably on the back. He pulled out a bottle of Retcon tablets from his interior jacket pocket and split one in half. "Just go home, have a lie-down, take this, and when you wake up, I guarantee you'll feel much better." The man looked at Owen skeptically. "Look, just trust me. I'm a doctor. Now off you go. Good man."
Tosh, meanwhile, had noticed that all of the raging Santas had paper crowns somewhere on their person, either on their heads or shoved in their pockets. "How're we going to get them to take them off? I know I didn't want you to take mine-- if we try and do it by force, they'll riot."
"You're the genius, what do you suggest?" Already, he was punching up '666' on his mobile-- his speed-dial code for Ianto. "Build a giant Rift-powered fan and blow them off?" He turned his back to the marauding hordes. "Ianto? Can you hear me? It's the Christmas crackers! The crowns have got some sort of mind-control device! You've got to get Jack and Gwen to take off those crowns!" The Santas were closing in fast. "Shit. Gotta run." He jammed the phone back into his back pocket.
"Hark! the drunken Santas sing, Glory to the new-born King! Pissed on bitter and on mild, God and Santa reconciled."
A-ha. A crooked smile cracked across his face. "Tosh, I've got it."
Just a little further down the way, the single bar had thus far escaped the madness. It stood dark and quiet, a beacon of beer and sanity. Owen took aim, shot a hole through the lock, and kicked open the door.
"Owen! What are you doing?"
"Ever had a secret fantasy about being a sexy barmaid?"
She didn't dignify that with a response.
"Whatever. Just get behind the bar there and get ready to pull pints. Lots of them." She ably caught the bottle of Retcon that he tossed her. "Half a tab in each. House best." He turned back to the red throng.
"Oi! Down here, you manky-Santa-suit-wearing tossers! For each paper crown you turn in here, you'll get a free pint!"
Then he stood back, and waited for the deluge.
"It's the Christmas crackers!" Owen was shouting "They're alien! You've got to get Jack and Gwen to take off those crowns!"
I knew it, Ianto thought, vindicated at last. It was talking to me.
"Oh, brilliant!"
Ianto was drawn away from his epiphany by Rhys' gleeful holler, and the glinting of green foil between his hands.
"It's a Christmas cracker! How'd it get here, I wonder?"
He tugged it apart with a BANG! before Ianto could even open his mouth to protest. A tumble of plastic jumping frogs and noisemakers and other useless tat rained down on the lino, but Rhys only had eyes for the paper crown.
"No, Rhys! Don't do it!"
Rhys froze, the crown suspended over his head and his mouth hanging wide in a bovine expression of confusion.
"Put it down." Ianto affected his lowest, most calming tone. One he might use on a toddler, or a dog. "Drop it."
Rhys's broad face darkened in umbrage, but he was still holding the crown, and it was coming closer and closer to his head. "Oi! I'm not a dog, you know!"
"Good." Ianto pulled his stun gun out of his coat pocket. "Then you'll respond well to verbal cues and multi-syllabic words: Put the bloody crown down NOW, Rhys."
"All right! No need to get tetchy!" Rhys let go of the crown. It swished gently, perhaps even a little forlornly, to the floor. "Did you really just point a firearm at me?!"
"It's a stun gun."
"So that makes a difference, does it?"
"Oh, do shut up, will you?" Gwen's voice echoed over the aisles. "We all know you're here and you're upsetting Gladys!"
"There goes the element of surprise, then," said Ianto, resigned. "Rhys, we've got to get those crowns off Jack and Gwen."
"Is that what's making them moony?"
"I'm not sure, but that's what's making everyone think it's Christmas."
Rhys thought for a bit. "A fan."
"A fan."
Rhys frowned at him like he was simple. "Yes, a fan. I'll get one from the home shop, run a bunch of extension cords, get up as close as we can, and just blow them right off their heads!"
Ianto blinked, and was silent for a long time. "I am... actually quite embarrassed that I'm about to say this out loud, but that's a brilliant idea."
And it was, too. Ianto distracted the lot of them by knocking over an entire shelf of tinned soups (and hadn't that been satisfying!) while Rhys, looking as heroic as he did ridiculous, leaped out behind them, cranked a white plastic box fan up to 'high,' and sent the two paper crowns idly drifting off the heads of Jack and Gwen, and down the main aisle toward Ianto, who snatched them up before they regrouped near the olives and pickles.
"That went well, I think." Rhys told him, somehow managing to keep a straight face.
Unfortunately, it did nothing about the alien, and it did sweet fuck-all about Gladys.
It was some time later when Owen's voice-- never one for subtlety, Owen-- reverberated through the store. "Ok, people, never fear, the doctor is here!"
"And Tosh!" Toshiko added brightly. "I had to recalibrate my PDA just to get a scan on those things, they're so small." She held out a pint glass with about an inch of lager in it. Suspended in the lager were hundreds of tiny dots glowing iridescent green. "It was sort of a happy accident when we discovered that exposure to lager makes them glow green. But these are the things that were making everyone Christmas-crazed."
"That's all well and good," Rhys jumped in, "but we still have an alien with a hostage and a loaded gun, and Gwen and Jack have developed some sort of unholy fixation on a pensioner in a Tesco shirt. Will we be able to find the--"
"-- Yule-tools?" Ianto suggested, staring fixedly at the pint glass.
"--The, er, Yule-tools on Jack and Gwen?"
Owen shrugged. "We're going to have to waste a lot of perfectly good lager to find out."
"But what about the alien?" Tosh asked. "How do we neutralize her?" Edging over with swiftness and subtlety, she took a reading with the PDA. "That's no ordinary gun she's carrying. It's a disintegrator pistol. There's no telling what sort of damage it could do."
"It could disintegrate things, I imagine."
"Thank you, Ianto."
Owen threw up his hands. "We'll have to take her out. Of the three of us, I'm the best shot. We'll have to do this sniper-style."
Toshiko looked at him in horror. "But what about the hostage?"
"Gladys."
"Thank you, Rhys. What about Gladys? If you miss, or if the alien's hand spasms, she'll die."
Owen threw up his hands. "That may be the chance we have to take."
"No," said Ianto, rising to his feet amidst the chorus of dissent from Toshiko and Rhys. "there may be one more option."
He lifted the pint glass gently from Tosh's hand, and without another word, walked off in the direction of the fresh produce.
Part IV: Merry Christmas, Everybody!
Ianto was nothing if not a fountain of obscure and veritably useless information. A quick flip through the mental Rolodex prompted the knowledge that Eris had started the Trojan War out of spite, and she had done it all without guns, without bombs, without mind-controlling paper crowns... She had set Troy on its head with only a golden apple.
And really, if it was good enough for the Ancients, it was good enough for Torchwood, wasn't it?
He walked briskly through the produce, ziggurats of oranges and pyramids of pears rising up on either side. A gentle rain fell over the greens from the automatic mister, and he felt, if he admitted it, rather pleased with himself, with the symmetry of it all. Jack would appreciate the poetic justice on the other side of this.
When he returned to where the rest of the team was bivouacking in the shadow of a hundred chutney jars with a golden delicious in his hand, Owen gawped in disbelief.
"Feeling a mite peckish, were we?" he hissed. "Seemed like a right good time for a snack?"
A disdainful look spoke for him. He kept right on walking "Torchwood is a wonderful place," he whispered to the apple. A tiny green fleck flickered dimly, barely visible against the smooth, yellow skin. "You've never wanted to be anyplace else. All your life, you've dreamed of sleeping in the cells of Torchwood, and you'll surrender to us quickly and quietly."
"Ianto, what are you doing?"
Tosh's voice held a note of concern, but he paid it no mind. "Jack? Can you hear me?"
Jack sighed a lovelorn sigh. "Yeah, I hear you. I... I need to save Gladys, Ianto. How can I keep her safe?"
He wasn't accustomed to hearing Jack sound so helpless, so utterly confounded. It sparked a blinding sort of outrage in him, a fury that someone or something would take pleasure in turning this brilliant, visceral man into a hapless laughing stock, the butt of a ridiculous joke. It was demeaning, and seeing Jack demeaned was worse, in a way, than seeing him injured. It was intolerable.
This ends now.
"Listen to me, Jack. Do you love her?" Of all the times he had imagined having to ask Jack that question, he hadn't envisioned it happening in a supermarket, and he hadn't expected to be referring to an elderly cashier. But none of that mattered much at present: he needed Jack's investment in this, and the only way to guarantee that at the moment was to play along. "Do you love... Gladys... enough to die for her?"
Jack chuckled darkly, giving Ianto hope that Jack-- his Jack-- was still in there, somewhere. "At Christmas? Easter would've been a bit more appropriate for that, don't you think?"
Ianto said nothing. Despite Jack's attempt at levity, what he was asking Jack to do made him absolutely sick.
"Jack, the disintegrator pistol... can you, you know, come back from that?"
It took Jack a moment to answer."I don't know. But if it'll help someone I love, 12th of May is as good a day as any other to find out."
Ianto swallowed hard. "On the count of three, then." His voice wavered, but only slightly. Maybe Jack hadn't even heard.
"I'm ready, Ianto."
The encouragement he heard in Jack's voice very nearly broke him.
"One...Two..."
He didn't even have to say "three." Jack was already lunging toward Eris, and suddenly the entire world was spinning in slow motion, every second a protracted and horrible farce. Eris forced Gladys to the ground, and the woman seemed to take forever to fall, Gwen reaching for her, wide-eyed and desperate, as she made a blue-checkered arc across the foreground of Ianto's vision. At the same time, Eris was bringing the pistol around to bear on Jack, and Ianto heard his own voice rising in the fray, a strange echo that seemed to come from anywhere and everywhere but his own mouth:
"Kallisti!" he cried. For the most beautiful.
Then Ianto Jones hurled a golden apple in the face of a goddess.
As the apple exploded in a squall of juice and pulp, a blue flash emanated from the muzzle of Eris' gun. Gladys, sprawled on the floor and shielded by Gwen's body, fainted dead away. Jack didn't even make a sound; he wasn't there. He had simply...gone. And Ianto felt the ground beneath his feet fall away as the howl of horror rising in his lungs died there, and left him on his knees with only an undignified whimper to show for his anguish.
The gun fell from Eris' hand, forgotten, and Owen darted forward to kick it away before taking her down with a forceful kick to the back of the knees. He held her to the floor with a foot between her shoulder blades, and while she didn't even try to resist, Owen kept his gun aimed at the back of her head all the same.
"Just give me a reason," he threatened, his voice menacing and low.
Tosh helped Gladys to her feet, much to Gwen's persistent and vocal dismay. "She's mine, Tosh!" she called after them, and then shrieked as she was showered in lager by Rhys, who seemed to be taking extraordinary pleasure in shaking up the bottles and letting them spray out wildly all over her. Within moments, a tiny green speck appeared on her cheek. Rhys flicked it off with his fingers and ground it into the floor under his heel.
Gwen looked at him, shivering and furious. "What in God's name did you do that for?" she demanded.
"Just tell me who you love, gorgeous."
She frowned hard. "I love you, you silly ape, but at the moment, I'd really like to wring your neck."
"That's fine," Rhys laughed, pulling her into his arms. "That's just fine."
Ianto couldn't move, couldn't do anything but stand there, his stomach in free-fall. Owen was roughly cuffing the alien, who was babbling mindlessly: "Torchwood is a wonderful place! I've always wanted to stay in Torchwood! I hear the cells there are delightful." Tosh was taking care of Gladys, Gwen and Rhys were having a bit of a soggy reunion, but Ianto couldn't even speak. When he heard Gwen cry out, he knew Rhys had told her what had happened, what he had done.
Jack was gone. And it had been his brilliant plan that had been responsible.
Kallisti. For the most beautiful. What he had sacrificed had been the most beautiful thing of all.
"Oh God," he whispered to the empty air. The sob welling up in his throat was stopped from rising to his lips only by the tightness of his tie. "Jack... I'm sorry... I'm so sorry..."
Two hands came around him and gripped him firmly at the waist. He startled, even though his body knew that touch as well as it knew his own.
"Sorry for what?"
Boneless with relief, a veritable puddle of Torchwood General Support spread out on the lino in front of the cold cuts. There, behind him in the middle of the fresh meat and poultry aisle, stood Jack. Naked as the plucked chickens on the butcher's racks. Rhys put his hands over Gwen's eyes.
"Jack?" Tosh reeled around. Almost instantly, her face went crimson and her gaze fell to her feet. "You're, ah, back, I see." she giggled, "all of you."
"But you were... disintegrated." His voice had come out in a graceless squeak.
"Apparently, I re-integrated. Over in the pet care section. My clothes, however, didn't. Good thing I left the greatcoat in the car, huh?"
"Really, Harkness?" Owen feigned irritation, but his grin was awkward and wide. "Starkers in Tescos? That's got to be a new one even for you."
Jack put his hands on his hips and cocked his head thoughtfully. "Well, there was this one time in Asda..."
"Don't want to know." Owen held up his hands defensively. "Really don't want to know."
Ianto was still at a loss for words. After a moment of awkward flailing, he simply threw his arms around Jack's neck and held him tight, which earned him a laugh and a rough pinch on the backside, followed by the welcome sensation of warm, moist breath in his ear.
"Have I mentioned that I find public nudity and supermarkets very exciting?"
Oh? Oh.Ianto could only assume that wasn't a banana in Jack's non-existent pocket, and that Jack was really happy to see him. He could see the produce section over Jack's shoulder and wondered if this would be a good time to determine if 'he turned beet red' was a literal or figurative expression. "Well, er... I'll just go and find you a dressing gown or something, shall I?"
"Ooooh, now that's a bit of nice, isn't it, dear?" Ianto heard Gladys say to Toshiko as Jack turned around and gave the cashier a shameless wink. "If I'd known that was on offer, I would have said yes to his proposal straight away!"
Once Jack was suitably dressed-- well, not really suitably, but at least dressed-- They began the clean-up. Their cover story seemed obvious enough: tainted hot dogs cause mass hallucinations in Cardiff.
"What's your name, love?"
Gwen, still dripping lager, began debriefing Eris' traumatized former minions once they, too, had been hosed down with beer and the Yule-tools removed. The goth boy's hands were still trembling.
"Von Ra..." he faltered, swallowed, shook his head, and began again. "It's just Craig. Craig Davies. I work at VideoPalace."
Gwen patted his arm reassuringly. "I need to ask you and your friend a few questions, Craig. And then I've got some... some prescription-strength Codeine for you to take. By the time you wake up tomorrow, all of this will just seem like a bad dream."
The damnable Slade song continued to wail out over the PA, extolling the joys of Christmas. "Sod this," Owen snapped, storming over to the manager's office and, on his third try, kicking in the door. Three shots rang out, and the PA went silent.
"Overkill, perhaps," he said, stepping out of the office and blowing across the muzzle of his gun like a cowboy. "But extremely satisfying." He holstered it with a flourish and a smirk.
"I'm sure it was," Ianto agreed, and offered over the piece of fruit he had been buffing against his jacket sleeve. "Apple?"
"Sod off," Owen glared, shrugging away irritably when Ianto gave him a conciliatory pat on the back. No longer having much in the way of tactile sensation, he didn't particularly notice a sodden clump of an erstwhile cracker crown clinging to the back of his shirt.
They crossed the car park wearily, but with a pleasant sort of bonhomie sparkling in the air between them. It seemed, Ianto thought, as if they'd all got a dose of Christmas spirit after all.
Jack, resplendent in a blackwatch plaid dressing gown and red fuzzy slippers, was almost beside himself with glee when they approached a super-mini that had been carelessly parked across three bays in the blue badge section.
"Oh, man! I haven't seen one of these in ages! And this explains all the hot dogs. It's a D-Class personal transport with a sodium nitrate-powered tachyon particle thruster engine! A little space ship that runs on sausage!"
Rhys frowned. "Looks like a Ford Fiesta to me."
"Actually," Ianto corrected, "I believe you'd call it a Fnord Fiesta."
No one got the joke, but it hardly mattered.
"You know what I think," Owen said, a slightly glazed look in his eye, "I think that we, as an institution, don't give Ianto the respect he deserves. I mean, really: Who's better than Ianto?"
Everyone turned and looked at him.
"What? I'm serious! Ianto's brilliant. The unsung masterming behind our operation. Have you considered giving him a raise lately, Jack? Or a vacation? Or a promotion? I could be Ianto's assistant! What do you think, Jack?"
Jack was giving Ianto a hard look, though it was hard to take the man seriously when he was standing in the middle of a Tescos car park in red slippers. "Are we going to have to review the section in the Employee Handbook about abuse of alien tech?"
"At length, sir," Ianto replied, looking utterly sincere. "I may require significant re-education," he added. "Perhaps a teaching tool might help."
He handed Jack a can of aerosol whipped-cream without further comment and walked toward the SUV.
They made their way back to the Hub, a happy convoy, Gwen riding in the Harwood's Lorry (Rhys had agreed to tow the Fiesta for a comfortable "consulting fee") and everyone else, including the alien, in the SUV. Ianto made no comment on the fact that an RAF greatcoat looked utterly ridiculous over a plaid dressing gown, nor did he mention that bedroom slippers were hardly appropriate for driving. Jack's face wore the contented expression of a job well done; who was he to disturb it with sartorial sarcasm? For once, Owen sat in the back seat without whining. Such a shame that it was only temporary. Maybe he'd take some video first, just as a memento. Or as future blackmail ammunition. At least he could look forward to hosing him down with beer later: life's simple pleasures.
As they stepped onto the lip of the paving stone, Jack made a grab for Ianto's hand and caught it.
"Hey. Ianto."
Ianto's lips turned up in a small, private smile. "Jack."
"I know it's May--" his free hand rifled through the interior pocket of his greatcoat and pulled out a somewhat misshapen sprig of plastic mistletoe "-- but it is too late to get a kiss under the mistletoe?"
Ianto didn't say a word. He just stepped closer, never letting go of Jack's hand, and kissed him softly on the mouth. "Happy Christmas, Jack."
The invisible lift began its measured descent into the Hub. No one on the Plass, least of all Ianto, noticed the gold-foiled Christmas cracker, incongruous yet nearly invisible beneath a surprisingly sunny Spring sky, rolling slowly but inexorably toward the them.
The End ... ?
Author's notes: It goes without saying that the Principia Discordia, Terry Pratchett, Monty Python, and Santacon all played a hand in inspiring this travesty, and for that, I am truly grateful. The songs sung by the Santa mob were blithely stolen from the official UK Santacon site, www.santacon.co.uk. Fnord!
"Ok, nobody panic, nobody move." Jack stepped out into the aisle and took quick stock of the situation. "My name is Captain Jack Harkness. I'm here to help you, but you're going to need to let--" he peered at the name badge-- "to let Gladys here go."
"You can't help!" the alien barked, Its voice sounding almost perfectly human. Almost.
"I'm from an organization called Torchwood." He took another slow and cautious step forward. "We can help you. But you're going to have to trust me, and let Gladys go. Now, why don't you start by telling me your name, your home planet, and how you got here."
This was met with a scornful snort. "Torchwood!Oh, I've heard of you lot. I'll take my chances with the Judoon, thank you very much! Now back off and let my minions do their work." She pressed pistol harder against Gladys' head, and the woman let out a pinched whimper.
Ok, that went well. "Um, I'm sorry: minions? Royalty usually don't resort to hostage-taking on this planet."
The alien's eyes flashed and the image of Thyrene Kolsaavaar wavered as the alien's concentration faltered. God, he had forgotten how much fun Kolsaavaarian singers could be. Three lungs! Incredible breath control. They hadn't done Christmas on Kolsaavaar, but they did have one hell of a Spring fertility festival...
"I am not mere royalty," the alien hissed. The shape of Thyrene Kolsaavaar snapped back into place and sharpened into perfect resolution. "I am Eris, Goddess of Discord! The Mighty Daughter of Night!"
It was Jack's turn to snort. "You're a Sharkhûla tourist running a half-assed con and stealing processed meats from a supermarket. And if there's anything I'm an expert at, it's spotting half-assed cons. Now, let's say you let Gladys go, you tell your 'minions' to drop the salamis, and we'll end this nicely."
"Do you doubt me?" The alien's face had twisted into a malevolent sneer. Off to one side, an older man carrying a bulk pack of bathroom tissue tried to back unobtrusively away from the scene. "Then I must demonstrate my power!" A blue flash from the pistol, a shriek from Gladys, and the old man and his loo roll vanished. Vaporized.
The shoppers screamed and scattered every which way, and in the panic-- the chaos, Jack corrected, the thought a sardonic prickle in his mind -- a mad tide of human terror surged toward the doors. Out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw Gwen flatten herself up against a shelf of baby formula to keep from getting pulled into the throng. Her calls for calm and orderly egress went completely unheeded.
"If you couldn't foresee that happening, you're not a very omniscient Goddess," Jack chided. The Webley slid easily from its holster, its heft familiar in his hand when he leveled it at the alien's head. When this call had come in, he had already broken out the Christmas scotch (Macallan, 1926) and the Christmas handcuffs (hypersteel, shiny) and he had come up with a whole list of ideas about how he was gonna put Ianto in the Christmas spirit (scotch, handcuffs). But as it stood now Ianto was back at the hub, sober and unrestrained, and he was in Tescos with a gun-toting, hostage-holding Sharkhûla with a couple of twentysomething "minions" and a fetish for phallic meat products. Under other circumstances, this would have been an entertaining Saturday night. And under other circumstances, he he might also have just taken his shot and been done with it, but now there was collateral damage to consider. If the Sharkhûla so much as twitched its finger on the trigger, it would take Gladys out, too. That was an unacceptable risk. "Ok. Now we're gonna have to get serious, because I'm really running out of patience."
The sneer on the Sharkhûla's face shrank to a nasty little smirk. "Oh, but I am the Goddess of Chaos, Captain Jack Harkness of Torchwood. And I can turn your sorry little world on its ear."
"Oh really? Prove it."
The alien raised the tubular pendant she was wearing around her neck and he instinctively cocked the gun. The thing looked almost like a dog whistle, and he geared himself for sonic torment. Or death, but that was only a temporary inconvenience in the great scheme of things, one which might actually provide enough distraction for Gwen to take control of the situation. When the dog whistle came up to the alien's lips Gwen shouted a warning that he had no good way of acknowledging (way to stay hidden, kiddo), but all that happened was that the Sharkhûla blew at him, then turned and blew at Gwen, who was now standing in the open. No noise, no flash, no boom.
"And this proves what, now?" he asked smugly. He threw a quick, appraising glance toward Gwen-- she was fine-- then checked Gladys.
Gladys.
Beautiful, desirable, exquisite Gladys. He holstered his Webley smoothly and took a step toward her. Toward that lovely face, haloed in candyfloss. Oh, Gladys.
The Sharkhûla jerked backward, dragging Gladys with her.
"Ah-ah-ah, Captain. If you love Gladys-- and I think you do-- you'll want her to be safe, and if you want her to be safe, you'll keep your distance and let me leave."
"Jack!" Gwen barked. "You love her? How could you!"
Gwen sounded terribly affronted, but Jack didn't particularly care. Fuck Gwen and her self-righteous humanity. He couldn't be bothered with that rubbish-- not when Gladys was right there in front of him, looking at him with those enormous, highly-magnified, brown eyes. "Yes, Gwen. I love her. I love Gladys. Is that a problem for you?"
He was so intent on Gladys, on her sweet, bewildered face, that he didn't even notice Gwen flying toward him until she made contact with a full-body blow. He went sailing backward into cardboard display of Walker's Crisps and came to a hard landing with Gwen astride his chest. Before Gladys, he might have wondered at his good luck and hoped Ianto was feeling open-minded. As it was, it just hacked him off.
"You great bloody bastard!" Gwen lashed out like a girl, smacking and swatting. Her Christmas crown began to sag over her eyes, but even when it slumped over her fringe and obscured her vision, she continued to flail at him. "Gladys is mine, Jack Harkness! Do you hear me, you pathetic little man-whore? You can't have her! I won't let you!"
"You think you can stop me?" The feral rush of adrenaline thrilled through him. "Bring it on!"
Fortunately, Gwen's mobile started trilling again, and she seemed to regain her senses long enough to stop pummeling Jack (who, to his credit, had not hit her back-- yet) and climb off.
"What?" she answered sharply. "No, Rhys, I don't know why the Santas are breaking windows. It's Christmas. They're celebrating. I don't know, maybe too much eggnog. That's what Santas do, yeah? Look, I've got to go. Gladys needs me. I love her, Rhys, and I am not about to let Jack think he can steal her out from under my nose."
Jack could hear Rhys roaring through the mobile from where he lay amongst the crisps packets. "Who the hell is Gladys?!?"
He turned his head, wincing-- a lump was swelling on the back of it-- and looked over at Gladys. He imagined how she'd look in his bed wearing nothing but her support stockings and the hypersteel handcuffs, and he smiled a filthy and anticipatory smile.
Gladys, still at the mercy of the alien's gun, didn't seem to know if she should look terrified or flattered.
Ianto was more than a little surprised when he saw Williams, Rhys crop up the screen of his mobile. Shouldn't have been, he considered. He'd already seen Owen in a Christmas jumper; after that, the Four Horseman of the Apocalypse riding through Cardiff on oversized unicycles shouldn't have come as a shock.
"Ianto, mate, it's Rhys. Gwen's husband."
Ianto looked askance at his handset. "Yes, Rhys, I'm well aware who you are."
"Yeah, well, apparently my wife isn't! And if Gwen thinks she's getting a mince pie after telling me she's in love with another woman, she's can kiss my pasty Welsh arse, I can tell you that!"
Ianto listened very patiently as Rhys ranted in progressively louder tones about pillaging Santas in Roath, and mince pies, and someone named Gladys for whom Gwen had just professed undying love.
"Rhys," he interrupted cautiously. "Is it--I mean, do you believe it's--Christmas?"
There was a pregnant pause before Rhys exploded.
"No! No it's bloody well NOT Christmas! It's MAY, for fuck's sake! I'm looking right here at the calendar, and it's MAY!"
"Unfortunately," Ianto sighed, "I think you and I might be the only people left in Cardiff who believe that."
Something brushed up against his trouser leg, beguiling as a cat. He looked down.
PULL ME!!!
It was the gold sodding Christmas cracker.
"I've got to go, Rhys. I'll be in touch." He shoved his mobile deep into his pocket and faced off with the cracker. "I have had just about enough of you," he told it sharply. It did not look even the slightest bit abashed.
He fetched a broom and batted it into an electrical cupboard, then wedged a chair under the door handle. That was when it occurred to him that it had been nothing but radio silence since Jack and Gwen had left for Tescos. When he got back to his desk, he keyed into the communications system.
"Everything under control out there, sir?
Jack's reply came across as distracted and vaguely annoyed. "Yeah, Ianto. Everything's fine. Listen, I'm with Gladys, and I really don't want to have to divide my attention--"
"Ah. Gladys. Of course. Er... Who's Gladys?"
"Dammit, Ianto, she's the woman I love, and I don't have time to do some sort of 21st century jealous boyfriend trip with you, ok? We had a good run, but Gladys... She's.... She's...Oh, Gladys-- She's the woman I want to marry, Ianto!"
"Righto!" Ianto said brightly in his most unaffected voice. "Well, I'll just let you get back to Gladys, then. No hard feelings. Ta!"
He immediately rang back Rhys.
"Be outside Millennium Stadium in fifteen minutes. Bring a lorry."
The Harwoods Haulage lorry roared down the streets like an angry bear, wheels only barely maintaining their grip on the tarmac as Rhys made the sharp turn into the Tescos car park and angled it to face the automatic doors. He shifted gears and gunned the engine a couple of times for effect, a bull pawing the earth and only waiting for the right moment to charge the matador and run him flat. Reflected in the windscreen, his face was the very picture of grim determination.
Determination, which turned very quickly into childlike disappointment.
"The bloody doors are wide open!"
Ianto nodded. "Sorry. I know you were looking forward to ramming something."
Rhys turned to him with a cocked head and a furrowed brow. "You know, I really was."
Abandoning their plans for a grand, if violent, entrance, they jogged briskly into the store and surveyed the situation before hunkering down among the tinned goods. At least if it turns into a standoff, we'll have the tinned peas to keep our spirits up. He could see both Jack and Gwen on their knees on the floor, grasping at the thick legs of an elderly Tesco cashier, who, in turn, was being held at gunpoint by a woman that, to Ianto, looked a bit like Catherine Tate.
All in all, he thought, there were worse ways to go.
"That's Gladys?" Rhys hissed despairingly. "Bad enough my wife's gone off men, but I was at least hoping it would be for a fit woman! Thought maybe I could talk her into having a bit of a--" he stopped and cleared his throat. "Anyway, that one's older than me mam and has got legs like a piano! It's enough to give a man a complex!"
The utterly besotted expression on Jack's face made Ianto's stomach roil. "Agreed. Now we need a plan. I've got to disarm Cath...er... the alien, and we'll need to get Jack and Gwen and Gladys out of there. I think it's safe to say they're under some sort of mental duress."
"Wait here. I'll nick a bottle or two of rum off the shelves." Rhys canted his head toward the wine and spirits department.
"And do what with them? Drink away the pain?"
Rhys rolled his eyes. "Molotov cocktails! Instant distraction!"
Ianto noticed that Rhys was staring rather pointedly at his tie and seeing, evidently, a very convenient wick. "Molotov cocktails, instant inferno," he corrected. "And please stop looking expectantly at my tie."
Owen ran as fast as he could, dragging Toshiko behind him. One of the few benefits of being dead was that he didn't get out of breath very easily. At all, actually. The same couldn't be said for Tosh. He jerked her into the recessed doorway of a sweets shop and pulled his gun, ready for anything. He could hear the revelers going in and out of the vandalized storefronts. Merry Christmas Everybody continued to ring out from the sorry little radio like a spiteful chorus.
"He's big, He's red, He’ll drink until he’s dead," the looters sang, loud and out of key. "Santa Claus, Santa Claus!"
"I'm all for feeling the joy of the season, but this has really got out of hand."
"He's fat, He's round, He’s taking over town...Santa Claus, Santa Claus!"
One of the barbarian Santas dashed past, a pillowcase loaded with pilfered goods flung over his back. Owen grabbed the furry hem of his coat as he flew by and held tight. When he swung around to see what had stopped him, the weight of his plunder threw him off balance and he went down in a pile of red plush.
"Oi! Lemme up! Santa's on the move!" the man barked, and tried to stand. Owen pushed him back down.
"Why don't you tell us what this is about first, yeah? I didn't realize Santa was into larceny."
The man only growled like a wild thing, scrambled to his feet, and gave Owen a shove. Owen reeled backward but caught himself, and drew back his fist, ready to throw a punch.
Tosh gasped. "Owen, no! Your hand!"
Fuck. He grimaced, and put his hand down. The Santa, too, seemed to pause... just long enough for Owen to down him with a flying tackle. The pillowcase flew out of his hands and some PVC knickers and lacy suspenders flew across the sidewalk.
So that's what what he gets up to with the elves, Owen sniggered. Naughty or nice my arse!
In the melee that followed, Santa lost his cap, and Owen his crown. After a moment, they... just stopped.
"Bloody hell," the man whimpered, his voice pitched so high Owen wondered if he had accidentally kneed the poor sod in the bollocks. "What the fuck am I doing dressed like Santa? What the hell is going on?" The horror and confusion on his face was perfectly genuine. "And Jesus, mate... that jumper!"
It was only when Owen stood to help his erstwhile combatant to his feet that he realized he was wearing the most hideous, most alarming, most offensively cheerful Christmas jumper in all of Wales.
"Toshiko."
"Yes?"
"Who put this on me? Is this some sort of sick joke? Did Ianto do this, because so help me if he did--"
"You put it on, Owen," Tosh looked perplexed. The little red light on Rudolph's nose blinked on and off, on and off, against her shirt. "It's Christmas! You wanted to be festive!"
"WHEN HAVE I EVER WANTED TO BE FESTIVE, TOSH?!?!" He shouted, and in a fit of temper, ripped that stupid paper crown off her head. She cried out in umbrage and smacked him hard on the arm, but then a look of puzzlement passed over her face, as if she knew she was upset but couldn't quite figure out why.
"Got your PDA?" Owen asked irritably. "Run this." He shoved the wrinkled remains of her crown into her free hand.
"I don't understand," she said desperately. "It's not picking up anything!" She made a few adjustments, and tried again. "Oh god! There is something here! It's some sort of transmitter. I can't see it, but it's here! It's somewhere on the crown!"
"Uh, pardon, but I still don't understand why I'm dressed like this," the Santa said unhappily.
"No worries, mate," Owen told him, slapping him companionably on the back. He pulled out a bottle of Retcon tablets from his interior jacket pocket and split one in half. "Just go home, have a lie-down, take this, and when you wake up, I guarantee you'll feel much better." The man looked at Owen skeptically. "Look, just trust me. I'm a doctor. Now off you go. Good man."
Tosh, meanwhile, had noticed that all of the raging Santas had paper crowns somewhere on their person, either on their heads or shoved in their pockets. "How're we going to get them to take them off? I know I didn't want you to take mine-- if we try and do it by force, they'll riot."
"You're the genius, what do you suggest?" Already, he was punching up '666' on his mobile-- his speed-dial code for Ianto. "Build a giant Rift-powered fan and blow them off?" He turned his back to the marauding hordes. "Ianto? Can you hear me? It's the Christmas crackers! The crowns have got some sort of mind-control device! You've got to get Jack and Gwen to take off those crowns!" The Santas were closing in fast. "Shit. Gotta run." He jammed the phone back into his back pocket.
"Hark! the drunken Santas sing, Glory to the new-born King! Pissed on bitter and on mild, God and Santa reconciled."
A-ha. A crooked smile cracked across his face. "Tosh, I've got it."
Just a little further down the way, the single bar had thus far escaped the madness. It stood dark and quiet, a beacon of beer and sanity. Owen took aim, shot a hole through the lock, and kicked open the door.
"Owen! What are you doing?"
"Ever had a secret fantasy about being a sexy barmaid?"
She didn't dignify that with a response.
"Whatever. Just get behind the bar there and get ready to pull pints. Lots of them." She ably caught the bottle of Retcon that he tossed her. "Half a tab in each. House best." He turned back to the red throng.
"Oi! Down here, you manky-Santa-suit-wearing tossers! For each paper crown you turn in here, you'll get a free pint!"
Then he stood back, and waited for the deluge.
"It's the Christmas crackers!" Owen was shouting "They're alien! You've got to get Jack and Gwen to take off those crowns!"
I knew it, Ianto thought, vindicated at last. It was talking to me.
"Oh, brilliant!"
Ianto was drawn away from his epiphany by Rhys' gleeful holler, and the glinting of green foil between his hands.
"It's a Christmas cracker! How'd it get here, I wonder?"
He tugged it apart with a BANG! before Ianto could even open his mouth to protest. A tumble of plastic jumping frogs and noisemakers and other useless tat rained down on the lino, but Rhys only had eyes for the paper crown.
"No, Rhys! Don't do it!"
Rhys froze, the crown suspended over his head and his mouth hanging wide in a bovine expression of confusion.
"Put it down." Ianto affected his lowest, most calming tone. One he might use on a toddler, or a dog. "Drop it."
Rhys's broad face darkened in umbrage, but he was still holding the crown, and it was coming closer and closer to his head. "Oi! I'm not a dog, you know!"
"Good." Ianto pulled his stun gun out of his coat pocket. "Then you'll respond well to verbal cues and multi-syllabic words: Put the bloody crown down NOW, Rhys."
"All right! No need to get tetchy!" Rhys let go of the crown. It swished gently, perhaps even a little forlornly, to the floor. "Did you really just point a firearm at me?!"
"It's a stun gun."
"So that makes a difference, does it?"
"Oh, do shut up, will you?" Gwen's voice echoed over the aisles. "We all know you're here and you're upsetting Gladys!"
"There goes the element of surprise, then," said Ianto, resigned. "Rhys, we've got to get those crowns off Jack and Gwen."
"Is that what's making them moony?"
"I'm not sure, but that's what's making everyone think it's Christmas."
Rhys thought for a bit. "A fan."
"A fan."
Rhys frowned at him like he was simple. "Yes, a fan. I'll get one from the home shop, run a bunch of extension cords, get up as close as we can, and just blow them right off their heads!"
Ianto blinked, and was silent for a long time. "I am... actually quite embarrassed that I'm about to say this out loud, but that's a brilliant idea."
And it was, too. Ianto distracted the lot of them by knocking over an entire shelf of tinned soups (and hadn't that been satisfying!) while Rhys, looking as heroic as he did ridiculous, leaped out behind them, cranked a white plastic box fan up to 'high,' and sent the two paper crowns idly drifting off the heads of Jack and Gwen, and down the main aisle toward Ianto, who snatched them up before they regrouped near the olives and pickles.
"That went well, I think." Rhys told him, somehow managing to keep a straight face.
Unfortunately, it did nothing about the alien, and it did sweet fuck-all about Gladys.
It was some time later when Owen's voice-- never one for subtlety, Owen-- reverberated through the store. "Ok, people, never fear, the doctor is here!"
"And Tosh!" Toshiko added brightly. "I had to recalibrate my PDA just to get a scan on those things, they're so small." She held out a pint glass with about an inch of lager in it. Suspended in the lager were hundreds of tiny dots glowing iridescent green. "It was sort of a happy accident when we discovered that exposure to lager makes them glow green. But these are the things that were making everyone Christmas-crazed."
"That's all well and good," Rhys jumped in, "but we still have an alien with a hostage and a loaded gun, and Gwen and Jack have developed some sort of unholy fixation on a pensioner in a Tesco shirt. Will we be able to find the--"
"-- Yule-tools?" Ianto suggested, staring fixedly at the pint glass.
"--The, er, Yule-tools on Jack and Gwen?"
Owen shrugged. "We're going to have to waste a lot of perfectly good lager to find out."
"But what about the alien?" Tosh asked. "How do we neutralize her?" Edging over with swiftness and subtlety, she took a reading with the PDA. "That's no ordinary gun she's carrying. It's a disintegrator pistol. There's no telling what sort of damage it could do."
"It could disintegrate things, I imagine."
"Thank you, Ianto."
Owen threw up his hands. "We'll have to take her out. Of the three of us, I'm the best shot. We'll have to do this sniper-style."
Toshiko looked at him in horror. "But what about the hostage?"
"Gladys."
"Thank you, Rhys. What about Gladys? If you miss, or if the alien's hand spasms, she'll die."
Owen threw up his hands. "That may be the chance we have to take."
"No," said Ianto, rising to his feet amidst the chorus of dissent from Toshiko and Rhys. "there may be one more option."
He lifted the pint glass gently from Tosh's hand, and without another word, walked off in the direction of the fresh produce.
Part IV: Merry Christmas, Everybody!
Ianto was nothing if not a fountain of obscure and veritably useless information. A quick flip through the mental Rolodex prompted the knowledge that Eris had started the Trojan War out of spite, and she had done it all without guns, without bombs, without mind-controlling paper crowns... She had set Troy on its head with only a golden apple.
And really, if it was good enough for the Ancients, it was good enough for Torchwood, wasn't it?
He walked briskly through the produce, ziggurats of oranges and pyramids of pears rising up on either side. A gentle rain fell over the greens from the automatic mister, and he felt, if he admitted it, rather pleased with himself, with the symmetry of it all. Jack would appreciate the poetic justice on the other side of this.
When he returned to where the rest of the team was bivouacking in the shadow of a hundred chutney jars with a golden delicious in his hand, Owen gawped in disbelief.
"Feeling a mite peckish, were we?" he hissed. "Seemed like a right good time for a snack?"
A disdainful look spoke for him. He kept right on walking "Torchwood is a wonderful place," he whispered to the apple. A tiny green fleck flickered dimly, barely visible against the smooth, yellow skin. "You've never wanted to be anyplace else. All your life, you've dreamed of sleeping in the cells of Torchwood, and you'll surrender to us quickly and quietly."
"Ianto, what are you doing?"
Tosh's voice held a note of concern, but he paid it no mind. "Jack? Can you hear me?"
Jack sighed a lovelorn sigh. "Yeah, I hear you. I... I need to save Gladys, Ianto. How can I keep her safe?"
He wasn't accustomed to hearing Jack sound so helpless, so utterly confounded. It sparked a blinding sort of outrage in him, a fury that someone or something would take pleasure in turning this brilliant, visceral man into a hapless laughing stock, the butt of a ridiculous joke. It was demeaning, and seeing Jack demeaned was worse, in a way, than seeing him injured. It was intolerable.
This ends now.
"Listen to me, Jack. Do you love her?" Of all the times he had imagined having to ask Jack that question, he hadn't envisioned it happening in a supermarket, and he hadn't expected to be referring to an elderly cashier. But none of that mattered much at present: he needed Jack's investment in this, and the only way to guarantee that at the moment was to play along. "Do you love... Gladys... enough to die for her?"
Jack chuckled darkly, giving Ianto hope that Jack-- his Jack-- was still in there, somewhere. "At Christmas? Easter would've been a bit more appropriate for that, don't you think?"
Ianto said nothing. Despite Jack's attempt at levity, what he was asking Jack to do made him absolutely sick.
"Jack, the disintegrator pistol... can you, you know, come back from that?"
It took Jack a moment to answer."I don't know. But if it'll help someone I love, 12th of May is as good a day as any other to find out."
Ianto swallowed hard. "On the count of three, then." His voice wavered, but only slightly. Maybe Jack hadn't even heard.
"I'm ready, Ianto."
The encouragement he heard in Jack's voice very nearly broke him.
"One...Two..."
He didn't even have to say "three." Jack was already lunging toward Eris, and suddenly the entire world was spinning in slow motion, every second a protracted and horrible farce. Eris forced Gladys to the ground, and the woman seemed to take forever to fall, Gwen reaching for her, wide-eyed and desperate, as she made a blue-checkered arc across the foreground of Ianto's vision. At the same time, Eris was bringing the pistol around to bear on Jack, and Ianto heard his own voice rising in the fray, a strange echo that seemed to come from anywhere and everywhere but his own mouth:
"Kallisti!" he cried. For the most beautiful.
Then Ianto Jones hurled a golden apple in the face of a goddess.
As the apple exploded in a squall of juice and pulp, a blue flash emanated from the muzzle of Eris' gun. Gladys, sprawled on the floor and shielded by Gwen's body, fainted dead away. Jack didn't even make a sound; he wasn't there. He had simply...gone. And Ianto felt the ground beneath his feet fall away as the howl of horror rising in his lungs died there, and left him on his knees with only an undignified whimper to show for his anguish.
The gun fell from Eris' hand, forgotten, and Owen darted forward to kick it away before taking her down with a forceful kick to the back of the knees. He held her to the floor with a foot between her shoulder blades, and while she didn't even try to resist, Owen kept his gun aimed at the back of her head all the same.
"Just give me a reason," he threatened, his voice menacing and low.
Tosh helped Gladys to her feet, much to Gwen's persistent and vocal dismay. "She's mine, Tosh!" she called after them, and then shrieked as she was showered in lager by Rhys, who seemed to be taking extraordinary pleasure in shaking up the bottles and letting them spray out wildly all over her. Within moments, a tiny green speck appeared on her cheek. Rhys flicked it off with his fingers and ground it into the floor under his heel.
Gwen looked at him, shivering and furious. "What in God's name did you do that for?" she demanded.
"Just tell me who you love, gorgeous."
She frowned hard. "I love you, you silly ape, but at the moment, I'd really like to wring your neck."
"That's fine," Rhys laughed, pulling her into his arms. "That's just fine."
Ianto couldn't move, couldn't do anything but stand there, his stomach in free-fall. Owen was roughly cuffing the alien, who was babbling mindlessly: "Torchwood is a wonderful place! I've always wanted to stay in Torchwood! I hear the cells there are delightful." Tosh was taking care of Gladys, Gwen and Rhys were having a bit of a soggy reunion, but Ianto couldn't even speak. When he heard Gwen cry out, he knew Rhys had told her what had happened, what he had done.
Jack was gone. And it had been his brilliant plan that had been responsible.
Kallisti. For the most beautiful. What he had sacrificed had been the most beautiful thing of all.
"Oh God," he whispered to the empty air. The sob welling up in his throat was stopped from rising to his lips only by the tightness of his tie. "Jack... I'm sorry... I'm so sorry..."
Two hands came around him and gripped him firmly at the waist. He startled, even though his body knew that touch as well as it knew his own.
"Sorry for what?"
Boneless with relief, a veritable puddle of Torchwood General Support spread out on the lino in front of the cold cuts. There, behind him in the middle of the fresh meat and poultry aisle, stood Jack. Naked as the plucked chickens on the butcher's racks. Rhys put his hands over Gwen's eyes.
"Jack?" Tosh reeled around. Almost instantly, her face went crimson and her gaze fell to her feet. "You're, ah, back, I see." she giggled, "all of you."
"But you were... disintegrated." His voice had come out in a graceless squeak.
"Apparently, I re-integrated. Over in the pet care section. My clothes, however, didn't. Good thing I left the greatcoat in the car, huh?"
"Really, Harkness?" Owen feigned irritation, but his grin was awkward and wide. "Starkers in Tescos? That's got to be a new one even for you."
Jack put his hands on his hips and cocked his head thoughtfully. "Well, there was this one time in Asda..."
"Don't want to know." Owen held up his hands defensively. "Really don't want to know."
Ianto was still at a loss for words. After a moment of awkward flailing, he simply threw his arms around Jack's neck and held him tight, which earned him a laugh and a rough pinch on the backside, followed by the welcome sensation of warm, moist breath in his ear.
"Have I mentioned that I find public nudity and supermarkets very exciting?"
Oh? Oh.Ianto could only assume that wasn't a banana in Jack's non-existent pocket, and that Jack was really happy to see him. He could see the produce section over Jack's shoulder and wondered if this would be a good time to determine if 'he turned beet red' was a literal or figurative expression. "Well, er... I'll just go and find you a dressing gown or something, shall I?"
"Ooooh, now that's a bit of nice, isn't it, dear?" Ianto heard Gladys say to Toshiko as Jack turned around and gave the cashier a shameless wink. "If I'd known that was on offer, I would have said yes to his proposal straight away!"
Once Jack was suitably dressed-- well, not really suitably, but at least dressed-- They began the clean-up. Their cover story seemed obvious enough: tainted hot dogs cause mass hallucinations in Cardiff.
"What's your name, love?"
Gwen, still dripping lager, began debriefing Eris' traumatized former minions once they, too, had been hosed down with beer and the Yule-tools removed. The goth boy's hands were still trembling.
"Von Ra..." he faltered, swallowed, shook his head, and began again. "It's just Craig. Craig Davies. I work at VideoPalace."
Gwen patted his arm reassuringly. "I need to ask you and your friend a few questions, Craig. And then I've got some... some prescription-strength Codeine for you to take. By the time you wake up tomorrow, all of this will just seem like a bad dream."
The damnable Slade song continued to wail out over the PA, extolling the joys of Christmas. "Sod this," Owen snapped, storming over to the manager's office and, on his third try, kicking in the door. Three shots rang out, and the PA went silent.
"Overkill, perhaps," he said, stepping out of the office and blowing across the muzzle of his gun like a cowboy. "But extremely satisfying." He holstered it with a flourish and a smirk.
"I'm sure it was," Ianto agreed, and offered over the piece of fruit he had been buffing against his jacket sleeve. "Apple?"
"Sod off," Owen glared, shrugging away irritably when Ianto gave him a conciliatory pat on the back. No longer having much in the way of tactile sensation, he didn't particularly notice a sodden clump of an erstwhile cracker crown clinging to the back of his shirt.
They crossed the car park wearily, but with a pleasant sort of bonhomie sparkling in the air between them. It seemed, Ianto thought, as if they'd all got a dose of Christmas spirit after all.
Jack, resplendent in a blackwatch plaid dressing gown and red fuzzy slippers, was almost beside himself with glee when they approached a super-mini that had been carelessly parked across three bays in the blue badge section.
"Oh, man! I haven't seen one of these in ages! And this explains all the hot dogs. It's a D-Class personal transport with a sodium nitrate-powered tachyon particle thruster engine! A little space ship that runs on sausage!"
Rhys frowned. "Looks like a Ford Fiesta to me."
"Actually," Ianto corrected, "I believe you'd call it a Fnord Fiesta."
No one got the joke, but it hardly mattered.
"You know what I think," Owen said, a slightly glazed look in his eye, "I think that we, as an institution, don't give Ianto the respect he deserves. I mean, really: Who's better than Ianto?"
Everyone turned and looked at him.
"What? I'm serious! Ianto's brilliant. The unsung masterming behind our operation. Have you considered giving him a raise lately, Jack? Or a vacation? Or a promotion? I could be Ianto's assistant! What do you think, Jack?"
Jack was giving Ianto a hard look, though it was hard to take the man seriously when he was standing in the middle of a Tescos car park in red slippers. "Are we going to have to review the section in the Employee Handbook about abuse of alien tech?"
"At length, sir," Ianto replied, looking utterly sincere. "I may require significant re-education," he added. "Perhaps a teaching tool might help."
He handed Jack a can of aerosol whipped-cream without further comment and walked toward the SUV.
They made their way back to the Hub, a happy convoy, Gwen riding in the Harwood's Lorry (Rhys had agreed to tow the Fiesta for a comfortable "consulting fee") and everyone else, including the alien, in the SUV. Ianto made no comment on the fact that an RAF greatcoat looked utterly ridiculous over a plaid dressing gown, nor did he mention that bedroom slippers were hardly appropriate for driving. Jack's face wore the contented expression of a job well done; who was he to disturb it with sartorial sarcasm? For once, Owen sat in the back seat without whining. Such a shame that it was only temporary. Maybe he'd take some video first, just as a memento. Or as future blackmail ammunition. At least he could look forward to hosing him down with beer later: life's simple pleasures.
As they stepped onto the lip of the paving stone, Jack made a grab for Ianto's hand and caught it.
"Hey. Ianto."
Ianto's lips turned up in a small, private smile. "Jack."
"I know it's May--" his free hand rifled through the interior pocket of his greatcoat and pulled out a somewhat misshapen sprig of plastic mistletoe "-- but it is too late to get a kiss under the mistletoe?"
Ianto didn't say a word. He just stepped closer, never letting go of Jack's hand, and kissed him softly on the mouth. "Happy Christmas, Jack."
The invisible lift began its measured descent into the Hub. No one on the Plass, least of all Ianto, noticed the gold-foiled Christmas cracker, incongruous yet nearly invisible beneath a surprisingly sunny Spring sky, rolling slowly but inexorably toward the them.
The End ... ?
Author's notes: It goes without saying that the Principia Discordia, Terry Pratchett, Monty Python, and Santacon all played a hand in inspiring this travesty, and for that, I am truly grateful. The songs sung by the Santa mob were blithely stolen from the official UK Santacon site, www.santacon.co.uk. Fnord!