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The door to Jack's office was ajar, which Ianto took as a signal that he didn't need to knock. Behind it, Jack's voice had lost its easygoing drawl and was raising steadily in volume, which told Ianto two things: Jack was on the phone with someone he didn't particularly like, and things weren't going his way.
“I don't care what the General said, the General can stuff it for all I care,” Ianto heard as he pushed open the door.
Jack's gaze slid to Ianto's as he entered the room. He held the phone out from his ear, pointed to it with his other hand and mouthed, “Can you believe this?”
Ianto could. Without even knowing what the problem was, he could believe it. He could also believe that, whatever “the General's” (Ianto was guessing it was General Chatham of UNIT, a by-the-book-type if there ever was one) initial objections were, Jack had made things ten times worse with his attitude.
“We're supposed to be playing nice, remember?” Ianto whispered.
Jack pulled a face and jammed the phone back to his ear. But when he spoke again, he sounded calmer. “Wednesday, did you say? Fine. If that's the best you can do, that's fine. Now what time can they get here?”
Ianto turned away to hide his smile. It looked like Jack was making good on his promise to get more people to help with the fieldwork until they could hire some permanent team members. That was a relief. What with him being restricted to light duty since he'd come out of hospital two days ago, and Jack keeping his vow not to work their tiny team of three as hard as he had been, they were in desperate need of some extra hands. Andy Davidson from the Cardiff Police had been allowed to assist with Weevil-wrangling, a task he had taken to with surprising gusto, but it wasn't enough.
Satisfied that Jack wasn't about to cause an incident between the two alien-catching organizations, Ianto went to fetch what he'd come in for, and stepped up to the coat-rack in the corner.
Various items hung from the coat-rack's incongruously yellow-tipped arms, including a pair of dusty binoculars and a satchel containing a notebook whose pages were yellowed with age. He barely noticed them. He reached for the only item that mattered, Jack's greatcoat, and took it reverentially down from its rung. Careful not to let any of it brush the ground, he draped it over his right arm, where it settled into the crook of his elbow like a beloved pet.
Ianto turned and glanced at Jack, who seemed much more cheerful now that his business had been settled.
“Oh-Eight-Hundred,” Jack said. “Right. Have them come to the Tourist Office by the Bay, and my man will let them in. Oh, and will you be accompanying them, Sergeant Alexi? I'd like to buy you a drink to thank you for all your help.” Jack winked at Ianto, who rolled his eyes. Jack was definitely feeling better.
“At eight in the morning, the only drink “Sexy Alexi” is getting is coffee,” Ianto stage-whispered. Jack grinned, then grabbed a pen and started jotting some notes. Ianto left him to it, passing quietly out the door, the coat a comforting weight on his arm. He had a job of his own to do.
Ianto proceeded to the boardroom, which he'd transformed into an ad hoc tailor's workshop. The light was the best there, and the meeting table would provide ample room for him to spread out. Beside the table he'd set the sturdy wooden box that contained his supplies, and he'd brought in an ergonomic chair that would support his back while he worked. No master tailor could ask for a better set-up. Now that he had the coat in hand, he was ready to begin the task he'd been looking forward to since he'd first caught sight of Jack's battered coat three days prior: restoring it to its former glory.
First, however, he had to figure out where to start. The poor garment had taken a hell of a battering over the last week.
'Almost as bad as me,' Ianto mused, lifting it and holding it out to examine. His wounded shoulder throbbed in sympathy.
Ianto shook his head to derail this train of thought. He had spent his first conscious hours in the hospital feeling sorry for himself, until he'd spoken with Jack and realized how lucky he was to be alive. He wanted to keep feeling that way—lucky. Wallowing in self-pity wouldn't help. Keeping busy would. It was time to get to work.
Ianto pushed the boardroom door closed with his backside, then fished a thick wooden hanger out of his supply box. He slid one end of the hanger into the left-hand shoulder of the coat, then angled it so that he could insert it into the right shoulder.
As he did so, the side of his hand brushed against the blue-gray lining inside. In contrast to the rough wool on the other side, it felt smooth and cool, and the gentle caress sent goosebumps cascading down his arm. Ianto pulled in his breath as a not-unpleasant shiver passed through him, then returned to his task, lifting the coat gently by the hanger and carrying it the few steps from the table to the door. He hung it from a peg on the back of the door, and then stepped back to examine it.
What he saw made his brow furrow in consternation. He'd never seen the coat looking this bad (and that was counting the time that Jack had been buried alive in it for nearly two millennia). Of course, he realized, he had never allowed it get this bad. Taking care of the coat had been one of his top priorities since his first day at Torchwood Cardiff, when he'd successfully removed dried egg from the collar with some cold water and diluted laundry detergent.
Ianto still didn't know what had happened to Jack during the days that Ianto had been kidnapped. But going by the coat's appearance, it hadn't been good.
Two of the brass buttons were missing on the right side, giving the coat a gap-toothed appearance that might have been endearing on a small child but was unseemly for such a dignified garment. Too, there were patches of ground-in dirt all over—not as much as when Jack had been buried alive, but plenty enough to be concerned about—including on the elbows, both cuffs, parts of the hem, and, Ianto noticed upon turning the coat around, on both sides of the vent in back. It looked for all the world as if Jack had sat in mud, rolled around in it for good measure, and then allowed it to dry.
Of course, even the rough-and-tumble Captain wouldn't do that unless...
'He was pushed down. And had to fight his way up,' Ianto thought, with a growing sense of unease. What on earth had been going on while he'd been out of commission? He turned the coat back around to continue his examination.
There was a ragged hole in the left shoulder of the coat that looked for all the world like a bite mark. Whatever—and Ianto was pretty sure it was a “what”, not a “who”—had attacked Jack had chomped right though the epaulet and taken a chunk of it away, along with a piece of wool from the coat itself. Ianto ran his fingers along the edges of the hole and found they were stiff with dried blood.
He closed his eyes briefly, took a deep breath, and let it out before proceeding.
There was a similar, but much larger, hole on the skirt of the coat, on the left-hand side. Ianto crouched down to examine it up close.
The hole was about the size of a Weevil's spread jaws and was surrounded by a dark stain that spread out palms-width in every direction. Ianto swallowed hard and tried to guess how much blood would have had to have been spilled to make a stain that size on the thick, water-resistant fibers of the wool coat. Enough to stop a normal man dead in his tracks, he reckoned. Or just stop him dead, period.
Ianto rose, feeling a bit unsteady on his feet. He wasn't normally squeamish, but that was a lot of blood. And Jack hadn't mentioned a thing.
Ianto shoved down a twinge of frustration—that was just so typical of Jack, after all, to nearly get killed (or actually get killed) and not bother to mention it—and forced his mind back to the task at hand.
The blood had dried and set into the fabric, which narrowed Ianto's options for getting it clean considerably. Fresh blood, even a lot of fresh blood, was not difficult to get out. Patient, repeated dabbings with a damp sponge, followed by frequent rinsing with cold water, usually did the trick. But once blood had dried, different measures were called for.
If they were busy, and they usually were, Ianto would have at this point called in the professionals—the dry cleaners he had on speed dial. They were experts at removing dried blood as well as making simple repairs, and were paid a hefty bonus every quarter to never inquire why employees of a tourist office were so hard on their clothes.
But for once, Ianto wasn't busy. He could take his time with this job, and not have to hand it off to a paid service. He could mix his own cleanser, part water and part dry-cleaning solution, as he'd learned to do back when the family had still had their tailor shop, before his father had drank all their money away. Repeated applications of this, followed by copious amounts of cold water, would probably do the trick. It would be tedious, but Ianto was nothing if not patient.
But as an employee of Torchwood, he had a better option. One that could revolutionize the dry-cleaning industry and make him a rich man if he decided to let the world in on its existence: tiny, iron-eating alien microbes that Owen had dubbed “Ferrias”.
Of course, he'd never tell the world about the Ferrias, much less sell them. He even had reservations about using them on his own clothes. It felt like cheating somehow; a clear violation of Jack's ban on taking alien things for “personal use”, though he suspected Jack wouldn't mind. He had no such hesitation about using them on Jack's coat, however. Jack was integral to Torchwood, and the coat was integral to Jack, and as such their use clearly fell under “business purposes”.
Ianto smiled to himself at the prospect of utilizing the Ferrias. He was strangely fond of the little guys; probably a sign he needed to get a pet. But before he could let the little creatures loose on Jack's coat, he needed to remove as much loose dirt as he could. The best way to do that was still the old-fashioned way—with a brush.
Ianto knelt by the box and dug for his favorite clothes brush. He owned several, including a serviceable plastic one that he used to brush out his suits after every wearing, but this brush was his favorite. It was elegant as well as functional: the handle and back were crafted from cherry and black beechwood, and the bristles were fashioned from goats' hair. It had cost nearly 60 pounds at Brook's Brothers and was worth every penny; the quality was such he could use it every day and still pass it down to his children. And his children's children.
Although at the rate he was going, he probably wouldn't live long enough to have children to leave anything to, he thought with a twinge of regret. Oh well. He supposed the brush would become Jack's when he died. That was alright—even fitting. He'd procured it for use on Jack's coat, after all.
Ianto picked up a copy of yesterday's South Wales Echo, unfolded it, and spread the pages on the floor. Then he began brushing the coat in long, steady motions from from top to bottom, starting with the lapels. He brushed over them, under them, then spread the sleeves out and brushed along each arm.
Stroke. Stroke. Stroke.
A satisfying shower of dust and dirt rained down on the newspaper.
Ianto moved down to the body of the coat, slowly working his way around, pausing only to turn the coat around so he could get to the other side.
Stroke. Stroke. Stroke.
When the newspaper was more black than black and white, Ianto switched to a smaller, stiffer brush and set to work on the patches with the ground-in dirt.
Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.
More dirt was released as a reward for his efforts.
Finally, Ianto stopped. He set the brush on the table and cleaned his hands carefully with a wet wipe. Then he turned back to examine his work, rubbing his hand absently over his forehead as he did so.
The coat was already looking better, he noted with satisfaction. There was a lot more stalwart navy showing where before there had only been patches of dingy gray.
But there was a lot more to do. He returned the brushes to the supply box and started to make his preparations for the next step: the application of some good old-fashioned soap and water to remove the more stubborn dirt stains.
“Hey Ianto, when's lunch?” Jack flung open the door and strode into the boardroom, causing Ianto, who was seated at the table with the coat spread out before him, to jump into the air.
“Christ, Jack!” Ianto exclaimed, righting a bowl of hot water that had been about to tip over, then slumping back into his seat.
“Sorry! I thought you heard me coming,” Jack said. He placed a soothing hand on Ianto's shoulder.
“The room is soundproofed. I didn't hear anything until you burst in here shouting like the place is on fire.”
“I wasn't shouting,” Jack protested with a hint of a pout. “Just talking normally.” He placed his other hand on Ianto's other shoulder.
“Which is loud. But yeah--sorry. I was concentrating and you startled me. I might have over-reacted a bit.”
“Don't apologize. I should have known you might be a bit jumpy after, well, all that's happened. Hell, I'm jumpy too.”
Ianto tilted his head to the side and rubbed his cheek briefly against Jack's left hand.
“And hungry, I take it?” Ianto inquired.
Jack stroked Ianto's cheek. “Yep!”
“Aren't you always?” Ianto lifted his head, and pulled his mobile from his pocket. “Tell you what--I'll place the order if you or Gwen meet them at the door. I'd like to work on this a bit longer.”
“Deal.”
“Will that be Indian, Chinese, or pizza today, Sir?” Ianto asked, reverting to butler mode even as he enjoyed the warmth of Jack's touch lingering on his face.
“Anything, as long as it's food and it gets here quick. What do you feel like?”
“I was thinking Indian, if that's OK with everyone else.”
Jack groaned good-naturedly. “Again? I'm going to turn into a Tandoori chicken.”
Ianto chuckled. He had a new-found appreciation for food since his ordeal, and had been indulging in all of his favorites since he'd been released from the hospital. His first day of freedom, he'd had cheeseburgers for lunch, dinner, and a late-night snack. Yesterday, he'd started working his way through the menu at their favorite Indian take-away.
“This from the man who just said he'd eat 'anything'. You could try ordering something else you know. How about the Vegetable Korma?”
Jack pulled a face. “No way. That has way too many green things in it.”
“That would it be why it's called Vegetable Korma. It's good for you.”
“No, thanks. I'll stick with what I know I like. And don't bother ordering me that spinach dish you guys get on the side. I won't eat it.”
“Must be nice to be immortal. You don't have to worry about getting your daily dose of vitamins and minerals like we lesser beings do. Very well. The usual then. Minus spinach.”
“Sounds like a plan. I'll let you know when it gets here.” Jack leaned in and kissed Ianto on the cheek, then glanced down at his coat.
“Looking good,” Jack observed.
“Why, thank you. Flattery will get you everywhere.”
Jack glanced at Ianto, his brows drawing together. “And your coat's coming along nicely, too,” Ianto added with a wink.
“Very funny. That joke's older than I am.”
“And yet, you still fell for it.”
Jack chuckled. “I guess I did.”
Ianto smiled, then dipped a sponge in the bowl of soapy water and started applying it to the left elbow of Jack's coat.
Jack squeezed Ianto's shoulders, and leaned in so that his mouth was right next to Ianto's ear.
“Flattery will get me 'everywhere', huh? I'll hold you to that later.”
Ianto couldn't quite hide the little shudder that Jack's warm breath on his ear sent coursing through his body, but he kept his tone neutral. “It might. It would have to be excellent flattery, however. I've been flattered by the best.”
“I'll just bet you have.”
Jack brushed his lips over Ianto's cheek, and, just when Ianto started to relax into it, stuck his tongue in Ianto's ear.
“Hey, no fair!” Ianto jumped, then scrambled to keep the water from spilling again before he allowed himself to laugh, “I'll get you for that, Jack. You know I will.”
“Looking forward to it,” Jack laughed, then departed, closing the door a lot more quietly than he'd opened it.
Ianto stared after him until he realized he was just sitting there, gazing at a closed door with a silly grin on his face, and turned back to his work. But he couldn't stop his mind from jumping ahead to that evening.
If it was anything like the last two, it was he that had a lot to look forward to.
He'd been sexually involved with in Jack since he'd been hired on nearly two years ago, and over that time their relationship had evolved from being a diversionary tactic (on Ianto's part) to a mutually enjoyable convenience, and then, as they had gotten to know and trust each other over time, into something much more. The truth was, sex with Jack had always been mind-blowing, from Ianto's first awkward attempts at oral sex to the kinkier "dabbling" that they had graduated to later. But since Ianto had been released from hospital, it had changed yet again.
That first night back, Ianto had felt ecstatic to be alive and eager to share that with Jack. He had taken the initiative when Jack, strangely, had held back, acting for all the world like he was afraid of breaking Ianto.
When he'd finally assured Jack he was fit for duty (as it were), Jack had been adoring, almost reverent. He'd gently undressed Ianto, laid him on the bed, and touched him all over, as if making sure he was still in one piece. Then he'd knelt beside Ianto and followed the paths his fingers had traced with his mouth until Ianto had thought he was going to melt, or explode, or maybe both at once. It was the tenderest night they'd ever shared. The next night had been just the same. And it didn't stop there.
During the days, Jack was physically more affectionate than he'd ever been, his hands constantly straying to Ianto like he was making sure Ianto was still there. Ianto was used to the inappropriate grope or pinch from Jack—everyone who worked for him was--but this was something else altogether. It took a little getting used to. He couldn't deny it though—he rather enjoyed the attention.
After a leisurely lunch in which Ianto ate twice as much as he usually did, causing Jack to joke that it was a good thing he knew how to sew because he'd have to let his suits out soon (Ianto had balled up the takeaway sack and thrown it at him), Ianto went back to the boardroom carrying a Styrofoam cup in one hand and a small glass container in the other. The cup contained his Lassi; the container appeared to contain about two dozen rust-colored poppy seeds. Appearances were deceiving. They weren't seeds at all, but the tiny alien organisms that were his secret weapon for removing blood stains.
Ianto seated himself once more, set his dessert to the side, and peered into the glass container at the small creatures that lay on the bottom of the glass, motionless for the moment: the Ferrias.
He smiled as he remembered the first time he'd heard Owen refer to the creatures by that name.
“What?” Owen said, immediately going on the defensive. “It's from the Latin for “iron.”
“I figured as much,” Ianto replied.
“Then why are you standing there looking even more gormless than usual?”
“I'm just surprised that you didn't name them after yourself. Was 'Harperias' already taken?”
“Bite me.”
Figuring out what the Ferrias (Ianto had actually liked the name, not that he would have ever let Owen know that) were and then capturing them had been one of Torchwood's more routine cases, but that was just fine with Ianto. He'd take tiny nuisance aliens over gun-wielding, sportscar-jacking blowfish or skyscraper-sized, life-devouring demons any day.
Ianto picked up a pipette, dipped it into the container, and used it to remove twelve of the tiny creatures. Then he dropped them onto the fabric around the largest of the holes. The creatures swarmed over the area and, like magic, the dark stain began to lighten.
When it was completely gone, the creatures migrated to the other blood-stained areas of the coat and gave it the same treatment; within minutes, the entire coat, including the chewed-on shoulder and the blood-stained lining, were blood-free.
Ianto picked them all up again (using a magnifying glass to ensure he got them all) and put them back in the container. He dropped in an iron tablet as a reward for their efforts, and screwed the lid back on.
“Thanks guys,” he said, setting the container aside, then realized he'd just spoken out loud to a container of tiny, iron-eating aliens.
“I'll be talking to plants next,” he said. “Someone will come into the hothouse, find me deep in a conversation with a fern, and think I've finally lost it. Of course, now I'm talking to an empty room, so maybe I already have!”
Ianto surprised himself by uttering a sharp bark of laughter at himself. How long had it been since he had laughed out loud? Some time before Gray had shown up, he reckoned, so maybe two months? It seemed longer. It felt so good, he did it again, just for the sheer joy of it. He gazed at the Ferrias in their jar, feeling more connected to the past, and to Tosh and Owen, than he had since they'd been killed.
He missed them so much it hurt. He missed being part of a team of five, working towards a common goal. As dysfunctional as they had been at times, they had worked. Like when the Ferrias had “invaded”. He had just been made an official field agent as well as general support, and had been included in all aspects of an investigation for the first time.
He took his seat at the boardroom table just as they started discussing the latest case that had the police baffled: Large quantities of wrought iron, including some valuable Victorian fences and gates, had started going missing in South Wales. The police had, at first, assumed it to be the work of thieves who were stealing the metal and selling it for scrap, but the local metal dealers all claimed ignorance of the missing metal. A search of available CCTV footage had turned up nothing. Literally nothing—the fences and gates had just appeared to vanish, leaving only piles of chipped paint behind. That was when Torchwood had gotten involved, dispatching Tosh to take scans of the affected areas and Gwen to interview witnesses.
The interviews had been fruitless: no-one who had been in the affected areas when the iron had disappeared had noticed anything unusual. They had better luck with the scans. The paint chips contained traces of an energy signature that even Jack had never encountered before. And neither, apparently, had Torchwood—there was nothing like it in the computers or the archives.
“Great.” Owen grumbled from where he was slouched in his seat, listening to the reports. “So we're dealing with what--invisible burglars from another planet? Renegade contractors from another dimension?”
“Anything's possible,” Tosh mused. “But why take the iron and leave the paint behind? That seems like a lot of trouble to go to if you're just going to steal it. It's more like they're dissolving it, somehow.”
Ianto, who had been studying the police reports on his PDA, frowned. “The incidents are increasing. At this rate, it won't be long before they get all the iron in the area and start branching out. So far it's only been a local story, but if the thieves reach London the media will have a field day with it. I can see the headlines now: “Invisible thieves steal Buckingham Palace Gates; the Queen is not amused.”
“But we can't see what's doing it! How are we supposed to find them?” Owen had protested.
From his seat at the end of the table, Jack spoke up.
“Gwen, any luck in finding a pattern in the disappearances?”
Gwen looked up from where she had been inserting pins into a map on the wall. “Well, the incidences were first reported in Pembroke, then Swansea, Abergavenny and now Cardiff, so the thieves appear to be moving from the west to the east and southeast. But the thefts have reported in as far north as Flint. Ianto's right, there's no telling where they'll go next.”
“I wonder if it has something to do with the coal fields in the region? There is quite a bit of iron in them well,” Ianto mused.
“Those have been inactive for years,” Gwen pointed out.
“Still. We have something that's taking, or dissolving, or eating iron, in regions that historically have had high concentrations of iron. That's a pretty big coincidence.”
“What are you getting at, Ianto?” Tosh asked.
“We're pretty sure it's something alien, right? Maybe it came here for the iron, and decided it liked the decorative sort better. Or maybe... maybe it's been here all along, hiding out in the mines, feasting on iron until it ran out, and now it's branching out.”
“Useless speculation,” Owen snapped. “Whether it's from outer space or ten thousand leagues under the sea, what we really need to know is where it's going to turn up next. How are we supposed to do that?”
“That's easy,” Jack said.“We give it what it wants. And wait for it to come to us.”
Ianto looked up from his PDA, understanding in his eyes. “I'll get the most cooperative of the metal resellers on the phone.”
“Do it,” Jack said. “Maybe we'll catch ourselves an iron-eating monster from the bowels of the earth.” He winked at Ianto. Owen rolled his eyes.
That afternoon, Ianto procured an ornate Victorian gate and propped it against the outer wall of the tourist office. Then he roped off the area and hung up a “Construction Area” sign.
Two days went by with no results. Just when Ianto began to complain the gate propped up like that was an eyesore and to threaten to actually install it over their door, a swarm of alien creatures had shown up. As it turned out, they weren’t invisible, just tiny. Still, they didn't escape the notice of the sensors Torchwood had set out. Alarms went off all over the Hub the second they arrived. They devoured the gate within minutes, but that was all the time Ianto, who was stationed in the Tourist Office, had needed to activate a containment field.
And with that, the case was closed—at least as far as the Police and the public were concerned. Jack told them that the culprits were microbes that had escaped from a research lab and that they had been neutralized.
Owen had set to work running tests on them, but then lost interest when the truth didn't turn out to be much more interesting than the made-up story. The creatures weren't intelligent. They didn't respond to anything he did to them—indeed, they seemed oblivious to human beings altogether. They ate, and when they weren't eating, they just sat there.
“Just useless pests. We're better off without them,” he'd declared, getting ready to incinerate the lot.
Ianto had demurred and asked if he might have them.
“Sure, no skin off my nose. But you're responsible for feeding them from now on. If they start gnawing on the Water Tower because you can't get enough scrap metal for them, don't blame me.”
“It's constructed mainly of steel. I hardly think it's in danger.”
“Well, when they attack you and drain your blood like a million tiny vampires and leave your desiccated corpse around for Myfanwy to gnaw on, then.”
“Thank you for your concern. It's very touching.”
Owen flipped Ianto the bird and walked out.
As it turned out, Ianto had no trouble finding enough food for the creatures. They seemed quite content with the iron supplements he obtained in bulk from the local chemist and the occasional meal of blood-stained clothing. They consumed the dried blood and left the cloth, just as he'd hoped they would. Despite Owen's predictions, they did not seem at all interested in attacking humans for their blood; they appeared to be adverse to liquids altogether, and preferred their iron in dry form. This made them not only ideal for removing dried blood from fabrics, but safe to handle.
Their addition to his arsenal of cleaning tools had made for a very satisfactory resolution to the case as far as Ianto was concerned
Ianto patted the top of the glass container and then leaned over to examine the newly-clean area of the lining. His fond smile faded, to be replaced by a frown of concern. The edges around the largest hole were ragged, and so much fabric was missing Ianto knew even he couldn't make that repair invisible. There would be obvious seams no matter what he did unless...
He replaced the entire lining of the coat.
Ianto placed his hand under his chin, sat back, and contemplated this. Should he or shouldn't he? It would be a big job. He'd have to pull all of the current stitches out by hand in order to remove the lining. Then he'd have to measure and cut the new lining, and then put it all back together again before Jack started squawking about not having his beloved coat. It would be a painstaking, time-consuming job. It was something he'd never consider doing during an ordinary week at Torchwood.
But it wasn't an ordinary week at Torchwood.
If he were honest with himself, part of him was itching to do it, and had been since the day he'd found a manufacturer that made a sturdy but soft polyester/silk blend in the exact shade he had needed. He had been new to Torchwood then, eager to prove himself indispensable, and had stocked up on it for just such a contingency. But then the opportunity had never arrived. Until now.
Ianto pulled a package of the new lining out of his supply box and let it run though his fingers. Both its color and the way it flowed reminded Ianto of water. The old lining looked dull and battered in comparison. It had served its purpose, but now the coat deserved better. Jack deserved better. The thought of enveloping Jack in all that silky material made Ianto feel a little giddy, truth told.
He'd do it.
Decision made, Ianto bent to retrieve a seam-ripper from his tool box.
Jack eased the door open and cleared his throat several times before speaking. “Ianto, it's nearly Nineteen-hundred hours. Gwen left two hours ago. Are you almost ready to—what the hell?”
The latter was added as he stepped into the room and got a good look at the table, where his coat, sans lining, was laid out; threads hanging from it everywhere. It was surrounded by freshly cut pieces of blue-grey material. The old, discolored lining spilled out of the bin by Ianto's feet.
Ianto glanced up from the large needle he was threading, a long stand of wool dangling from his teeth.
“Hmm?”
“Ianto, you said you were going to fix my coat, not make it worse. What are you doing?” Jack exclaimed.
“Isn't it obvious? I'm repairing the giant hole something left behind when it decided to have you for a snack,” Ianto mumbled around the wool.
“And to do that you had to rip everything to shreds?”
“No. I had to rip everything to shreds in order to replace the lining.”
Jack looked like he was having difficulty forming words. “Oh,” he finally managed.
Ianto took pity on him.
“Don't worry. It looks worse than it is. I'll have it back to you before you know it.”
Jack was still looking a bit pained. “Really?”
“I promise.”
“Well, all right. I trust you,” Jack said, sinking into a seat beside Ianto.
“Let me just finish this bit, and then I'm all yours for the night. Alright?”
The prospect appeared to appease Jack's anxiety somewhat, if the way he leaned back in his chair and spread his legs in a wide, relaxed stance was any indication. Ianto glanced at him, then resumed stitching.
The two men sat in silence; Jack gazing out the window at the Hub below and Ianto staring at his work—when he wasn't sneaking glances at Jack. He hated to break the companionable mood, but there was something he really needed to know, and it was clear Jack wasn't going to bring the subject up himself.
“Jack? Where did these holes come from?”
Jack turned to look at the piece of a coat Ianto was repairing and waved a hand. “Ah. It was nothing.”
“It doesn't look like 'nothing'.”
“Fine. It was a Weevil.”
Ianto arched an eyebrow. “Lot of damage for one Weevil.”
“Well, all right, Weevils. Plural.” Jack added grudgingly. “But it wasn't a big deal.”
“Jack! By the looks of things, you would have died if you could, you know, die. How can you say that's not a big deal?”
“In the great scheme of things, it really wasn't. 'Nother day, 'nother Weevil, you know. Hey, that's not bad! That should be our company motto. What do you think?”
“If you want. But I refuse to have it printed on our stationary. It's cluttered enough as it is with your name in 16-point type up top.”
“Too bad.”
“Jack,” Ianto began again, refusing to be diverted so easily. “About those Weevils...”
“Like I said, it was no big deal. Now that...” Jack nodded at the coat... “Is a big deal. How long did you say it will take again?”
Ianto shook his head. Trying to get information out of Jack was like pulling teeth. The coat, in its own way, had been more forthcoming. Ianto stroked the wool in front of him affectionately.
“In the great scheme of things? Not long.”
Jack look startled for a moment, then his smile emerged like the sun from behind storm clouds, brightening up the whole room. “Touché.”
Ianto smiled back. “But seriously, it shouldn't take more than a day or two, Rift willing. I promise I'll have it ready before you catch a chill. Which isn't very likely, being that it's almost June.”
“Huh. See that you do.” Jack winked to take the sting out of the words, then turned slightly and picked up a discarded piece of lining. He absently ran it through his fingers while Ianto finished his stitches, then set down his needle and thread.
“There,” Ianto said. “That's enough for now. I'd like to do more, but my shoulder is starting to ache.” He flexed his fingers, then tried to straighten his arm and winced. It had grown quite stiff while he'd been working—he'd been so focused on his tasks he hadn't noticed.
Jack reached out and rubbed Ianto's arm.
“Hey. While I'd like to have it back as soon as possible, I don't want you to injure yourself. My coat's important, but you're more important.”
Yet another unaccustomed, affectionate gesture from Jack. Whatever had happened while Ianto had gone, it had changed Jack somehow. A reserved sort himself, Ianto wasn't quite sure how to react to all these casual displays of affection. Was he supposed to acknowledge each one? Do something in return?
He settled for casting Jack a grateful look while giving Jack's wrist a quick squeeze with his free hand. Then he began to gather his things together.
Finally everything was stowed neatly away, except for the coat, which he thought it best to leave right where it was, and one other thing that had struck him as curious.
“Jack?” Ianto pointed to a small plastic item on the table. “I found this in one of the pockets.”
Jack glanced at it and his face clouded over. He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing visibly above the collar of his blue shirt.
“Your old earpiece. I forgot I put that in there.”
Ianto's hand strayed to his right ear, where his new earpiece currently rested, as he gazed at Jack. He hadn't expected this reaction. While part of himself was kicking himself for ruining the mood, he really wanted to know how his old earpiece had found its way into the deep front pocket of Jack's coat. Not that he could expect any answers from Jack, but he had to try.
“How did you get it? I assumed that Iolo took it with the rest of my things.”
Jack picked up the earpiece from the table and cupped it in his palm, and then, much to Ianto's surprise, proceeded to answer his question.
“He didn't. I found it in the mound of rubble after you'd gone missing. I probably should have turned it in as evidence. But instead I just... held on to it.”
As he spoke, turned the battered bit of plastic over and over in his hands, in a gesture that seemed so automatic he must have done it countless times before. His gaze seemed very far away.
“There was so much rubble," Jack murmured. "A mountain of it. No matter how much I dug, it didn't seem to make a difference. And then when I finally reached the bottom, there was nothing there. Only this.”
Ianto wasn't sure what was more astonishing—that Jack had held onto this bit of him like some sort of talisman, that Jack's hands were currently shaking, or that Jack was sharing something this personal with him.
Ianto reached out and put his own hands over Jack's. Jack looked up at him, his eyes a window into the past, reflecting the pain and fear he'd felt.
“Hey,” Ianto said softly. “It's O.K. I'm O.K.”
Jack blinked and seemed to come back to himself. “Yeah. Right. I know. It's just that for awhile there...” He didn't finish the sentence.
He didn't have to.
Ianto decided that he had discovered all he needed to know from Jack. At least for now.
“So. I believed someone mentioned dinner?”
Just like that, the sun was back out in Jack's face again. “Yes. As long as it isn't Indian. Please, Ianto, for the love of all that's good in the world, I need at least a twelve-hour break from Tandoori Chicken.
“Fine. The diner then. I could go for another cheeseburger.”
Jack rose, glanced at the earpiece in his hand as if seeing it for the first time, shrugged, then tossed it into the bin on top of a pile of discarded coat lining. He offered Ianto a hand to help him rise.
“Your mother ever tell you if you keep eating like that, you're going to turn into a cheeseburger,” he teased.
Ianto took it the proffered hand.
“Actually, yes. Though it was fish and chips. The summer I was eight I wouldn't eat anything else. Alas, the promised transformation never occurred.”
“It still might. Hey, speaking of fish and chips, how come we never have them around here?”
“Because I order the food, and after that summer, I never want to eat them again. Even the smell makes me queasy.”
“Too much of a good thing, eh?”
“I wasn't aware you knew the meaning of that term."
“I don't. It's just a phrase I picked up somewhere. It seemed appropriate for the occasion."
Ianto laughed and waved his other arm to usher Jack out the door. “Come on, then. I bet they've got fish and chips at the diner. If you promise to sit upwind, I'll let you order you some.”
“You're on!”
Jack, still holding Ianto's hand, practically dragged him out the door. He continued to hold it as they wound their way through the Hub to the Invisible Lift. Ianto decided that he could get used to this touchy-feely Jack.
So what if Jack didn't tell him everything. Some things never changed, he supposed. But some things could change, and some things did. He had a second chance at life (or was it the third? Or fourth? He'd had so many close calls in the last few years!), a job that gave his life meaning, and a partner that had literally moved mountains for him. Things could be a lot worse, he decided as he mounted the paving slab that served as the floor of the Lift.
Still holding Jack's hand, Ianto gazed downward as the Hub, clothed in her night attire of LED and shadow, dropped away below them. He realized he'd never been happier to be right where he was.
--fin