kitty_scribble: (Default)
[personal profile] kitty_scribble
Well, I've been hinting about this and wittering about it for quite a while now. And finally chapter one is ready, so I thought I'd pop it up and see what you think. There isn't an update schedule for this, it'll be as the chapters are finished and ready. Twelve are written and with quite possibly the best beta in the world, [livejournal.com profile] jooles34, without whom this would never have actually seen the light of day!

So without further ado, here it is! Please be kind *wibbles*

Title: What I did on my Suspension
Beta: The amazing, wonderful and fabulous [livejournal.com profile] jooles34
Characters: Ianto/OMC, mentions of Ianto/Lisa, Ianto/OFC and Janto
Words: 3041
Rating,Warnings: PG for this chapter, will go up to NC-17 for later ones!
Disclaimer: Whilst I do claim to own my ocs, I don't own the world or characters of Torchwood, but they all play so well together that it would be mean to split them up!
Summary: Ianto decides to use his suspension to reconnect with himself
Spoilers: None
that I can think of.

It was four days into his suspension that Ianto woke up without wanting to smother himself in his own pillows, scream in the shower or punch a hole through the television. But he still wasn’t totally himself; he felt numb, empty and robotic, going through the motions of being alive without really experiencing anything. He sat up in bed with a groan, suddenly aware that the bed needed changing, he needed a shave and a troupe of tap-dancing centipedes had taken up residence in his skull. Gods he felt rank!
 
He swung his legs out of bed and winced when his foot collided with an empty JD bottle. Well, that was the reason for tap dancing centipedes in his head then. He glanced at the bedside table, no glass. Not a good sign. He only drank like that when he was looking to get slaughtered, or if he’d only had a finger left in the bottle. From the way he was feeling, it was likely to be the former. He set the bottle onto the bedside table and tottered out towards the bathroom, where he found another empty bottle of JD by the bath. He tried to think how much bourbon he had in the house, but his brain was not helping telling him that it would work much better if there was a bacon sandwich and a flat coke in its future. Finishing up in the bathroom, Ianto was inclined to agree, and picking up the bottle, made his way into the kitchen.
 
Where there was another empty bottle. Suddenly struck by a thought, Ianto padded from the kitchen, through the hall, to the lounge. A final empty bottle lay on its side by the sofa. Ianto picked it up and carried it into the kitchen to join the others. He stared at them for a while. Four bottles and no glasses was a bad combination. Sighing, he opened the fridge, then the freezer, then each of the cupboards, wincing as they banged closed. Scratch that, four bottles, no glasses and no food was a bad combination. Damnit he was going to have to go out, and he really didn’t want to have to do that. He felt like hell, had a feeling that he looked like it too and the sun was being annoyingly chirpy and shining brightly which did nothing to lift his mood.
 
He wandered back through to the bathroom and caught sight of himself in the mirror. He looked horrendous. On top of the stubble, bloodshot puffy eyes and sallow skin from the three-day drinking binge, he had a cut above his eye and a hand shaped bruise on his neck. He fingered the bruise, hissing when he touched a sore spot. Funny how the final physical reminder of her was something so violent he thought. He idly wondered whether her kisses or the way she would wrap her arms around him would have been better. More romantic definitely. At least this way he couldn’t forget what he’d wilfully blinded himself to.
 
He mentally shook himself before he could get all maudlin and turned the shower on, giving it a few minutes to heat up before he stepped under the spray. He was slightly surprised to find that the water stung and using shower gel made it worse. He must have been more beaten up than he thought, and really filthy. As he soaped himself up, he could feel all the crap, the secrets and the lies from the past few months dissolve under the suds; the final release coming as the rust coloured water swirled down the plughole. Once he’d rinsed off and left the shower he had a new resolve. It was time to get his life back.
 
He walked down the corridor into the bedroom, noting with faint disgust that the suit he had been wearing four days ago was still in a pile on the floor. Opening the wardrobe and looking grimly at the acres of black and pin-striped blandness that greeted him, he rooted around for a while until he found the pair of black jeans that he was looking for and pulled them on. Now he felt better equipped to tackle the wardrobe.
 
Striding into the kitchen, he grabbed the roll of black bin liners under the sink and went back into the bedroom. The suit from that fateful night was the first to go, followed by the shoes, tie and underwear he’d been wearing. He double-bagged it to ensure that it was never used again. Then he turned to the wardrobe. Firstly he removed all the black and pinstriped suits he’d bulk bought from M&S when Jack had finally capitulated and given him the job. They had never fitted correctly and always looked cheap, but they had done the job and now he didn’t need them. They had kept him nicely hidden in the background something that the eye would slide over rather than seek out or focus on, like his own personal perception filter. But that wasn’t him, had never really been him, just been a necessity.
 
Next he threw out all the hated white shirts. He looked terrible in white; it totally washed him out, and they were so difficult to keep clean. Getting rid of them was even more cathartic than getting rid of the suits. Then the wire coat hangers, feeling a little ‘Mommie Dearest’ as he did so. He smirked then, remembering an evening spent watching, then imitating Joan Crawford. It wasn’t until he’d tied up the last bag and turned back to the wardrobe that he thought about Lisa. It was the shoebox that jolted him, sitting there looking ominous at the bottom of the wardrobe. He looked at it for a while, waiting for it to do something, or provide some startling revelation. But it just sat there, looking rectangular and white and annoyingly humdrum. Carefully he took it out and put it on the bed. He’d known he would have to face this at some point, may as well be now.
 
He opened the lid slowly, as if something would reach out and grab him, and steeled himself. The first things in there were photos of him and Lisa; images of them smiling and being daft at that godawful picnic that had been one of Hartman’s ‘team building’ ideas. He smiled wryly as he remembered trying to persuade Lisa to sneak off for a more private function, and the way she’d refused and tried to get closer to the Hartman inner circle. The rest of that day had not gone well and he’d ended up making a phone call and having two simultaneous arguments.
 
Pushing the memory away from him, he pulled out the rest of the photos. Underneath the ones of Lisa (and the ones of Lisa that he’d taken without her knowledge) were the ones of his time before Torchwood. He’d forgotten these and, looking at pictures of his friends and surrogate family, he smiled as happier memories swept through him. The various fancy dress parties, photos of him as a highwayman, pirate and the one of him in full Kabuki make-up that he thought he’d lost. There were also several of him in compromising positions with members of both sexes and a few incredibly pose-y ones of him in his old going out gear, khol-rimmed eyes gazing moodily at the camera. He snorted at how utterly poncey he looked and grinned when he saw the ones from later on, where he’d giggled and then ended up laughing at the photographer, completely ruining the mood.
 
It had been ages since he’d gone out to dance and get drunk and go home with someone completely unsuitable. What had happened to him? Oh yeah, job with the worst undercover top-secret organisation in the world and a second job as enabler to a potential mass-murderer. No wonder he’d let things drift a little. Ok, a lot. His stomach grumbled and he remembered his original plan of finding a greasy spoon and attacking a bacon sandwich, followed by a much needed food shop. He’d got another three weeks of suspension to go and he couldn’t survive on fresh air. Plus he was pretty sure he was out of booze, although that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.
 
He was putting the photos back into the box when something caught his eye. It was a simple brown envelope with ‘Ianto’ written on it in very familiar handwriting that he hadn’t seen for nearly a year. Ianto pulled it out from under the remaining photos, mainly family and childhood ones, and stared at it. He turned it over and was slightly surprised to find that it had been opened. He couldn’t remember ever seeing it before, let alone opening it. Curiosity overcame him, he opened the envelope and took out the contents.
 
It was another photo, one he’d never seen before, one he hadn’t even realised had been taken. He turned it over, but all that was written on the back was ‘Miss You – L’. He turned it back. It was one of those gloriously unguarded moments that only gets captured on film occasionally. Ianto stared at it for a few moments before coming to a decision. Gathering the box, he shoved all bar the last photo back in and pushed it into the back of the wardrobe. Suddenly a chill reminded him that he was in the middle of getting dressed too, and he went to his chest of drawers and grabbed a black tee shirt. Putting it on, he turned back to the wardrobe. All that remained in it were five beautiful suits that had never seen the inside of the Hub, his tie rack which had escaped the purge and the shoebox. He shut the door, satisfied that he had removed the ghost from the real Ianto.
 
He was now on a mission. He’d had a brief plan earlier, mainly concerning bacon sandwiches and shopping, and now he was factoring in a charity shop run to get rid of the suits and a phone call. Or more likely, a text message. They hadn’t spoken in a while, oh about eight months or so, and they hadn’t parted on good terms. He winced internally when he thought back to the argument. He’d acted like the child they always used to tease him about being. He wondered if this was going to be a bad idea. Still with his current track record of monumentally bad ideas, it couldn’t hurt. It wasn’t as if this was going to result in a cyber revolution or world domination, or even an outbreak of sex aliens. Well, not the ones that kill you anyway! He grinned to himself at that and bounded out of the bedroom, down the hall to a small cupboard that served as a coat store and general junk room. He rooted through it until his fingers closed over the soft buttery leather of a jacket lying forgotten under a pile of denim and wool.
 
He pulled it out, causing a minor cascade of objects that had been piled on top. Sighing he closed the door on the mess and turned to leave. He stopped, flung the jacket aside and opening the door again, started to tidy the cascade of junk forced in there. He knew it was a delaying tactic, an avoidance of the inevitable, but he forged on regardless. Once everything had been returned to its rightful place, he returned to his delayed task. He rifled through the pockets of the jacket, shoving a hand deep into each one, checking for holes too. He produced two lighters, half a packet of cigarettes, £27.36 in assorted notes and change, four out-of-date tube passes, a couple of old receipts, the ubiquitous condoms and lube, a stopwatch and a phone, or more importantly, a non-Torchwood issue phone.
 
Ianto wasn’t an idiot, and he wasn’t so overcome with the events of the past few days to make a rookie mistake. He knew that all of their phones tracked every call and text. It had been the same at One. With a top-secret organisation came top-secret levels of paranoia. So when he joined One and had given over his own phone to be ‘upgraded’, he’d been given this one by his surrogate family. They wanted to stay off the Torchwood radar and after reading about them in the Archives, Ianto knew why. But they wanted to give him a way to reach them, hence the phone. It looked like a shiny black pebble; no lights, no display. Ianto knew that it wasn’t 20th or even 21st century technology; the phone never lost signal, never needed recharging and always seemed to know when it needed a ringtone, to be silent or to vibrate. It knew when he needed to make a call or send a message, and would present him with the options as required. Currently it was flipping open, showing a small keypad with blue backlit keys and a clear screen. Before he could think too much more about it, Ianto quickly tapped out a message and sent it. Then he closed the phone, shrugged the jacket on, dropped the phone back into the hidden inside pocket, pocketed the change, lighters, cigarettes, condoms and lube and binned the rest. He walked briskly back into the bedroom, pocketed the brown envelope, picked up the bags for charity and the bag for the bin and swept out of the house, gathering his keys as he went.
 
He’d just chucked the bin bag into the huge skip at the corner of the residents car park and was loading the charity bags into his boot when the phone started vibrating madly in his coat. Ianto moved into a nice CCTV blank spot that he’d found when he was looking at moving Lisa, and opened the phone. The message, ‘Yep, gimme ninety minutes, usual place’, flashed up and Ianto let out a breath he hadn’t known he had been holding. Feeling considerably lighter, he strolled back to the car and set off to do the first of his chores.
 
The charity shops were very grateful. He explained that he’d been having a spring clean and would rather that they didn’t go to waste, whilst the ladies clucked over him being such a polite young man. From there, he flew around the supermarket and grabbed a bacon sandwich from the café. It wasn’t the best sandwich he’d ever had, but his stomach was much happier with the whole eating thing. He checked the time, realised he’d got about forty five minutes to go and set off back to the house. Once there he quickly unpacked the shopping and stripped the bed, dumping the sheets in the laundry bin, then he grabbed his jacket and whirled out of the house.
 
He left the car; it was fitted with a tracking device and this was private. Plus he knew where he was going was a lot easier to get to without a car anyway, not only because of the access issues, but also because of the security aspect. After walking down pretty suburban streets for about twenty minutes, he suddenly turned left and ended up by an area of waste ground, empty except for scrubby patches of grass, the remains of makeshift fires, a couple of burnt out cars, an old sofa and several piles of concrete. ‘Oh yeah!’ thought Ianto ‘we always meet in the classiest areas’. He folded his arms and waited, glancing round in case he’d missed something. He felt very exposed out in the open like this, and checked his watch to ensure he wasn’t late. Annoyingly, he was slightly early. The phone was staying resolutely silent in his pocket, so he settled himself in for a wait.
 
Twenty minutes later, Ianto was wondering if he’d been, for want of a better phrase, stood up. There was no sign of life, well nothing human anyway, and he was starting to get chilly. He would give it ten more minutes and then he would head home, via the off-license, drink himself back into oblivion and face all of this tomorrow. Just as he made this decision, he heard a noise behind him and smiling slightly, he composed himself.
 
“Was beginning to think you weren’t coming”
 
“Dammit Jones, do you have bat senses? I should be able to sneak up on you better than that!”
 
“For someone who is supposed to have worked with time and understands the importance of it, you have shockingly bad time keeping” Ianto turned to face the person he had been waiting for, clicking the stopwatch in his hand ‘You are 23 minutes and 42 seconds late’
 
“Yeah, but I’m worth it though.” Green eyes met blue eyes and twinkled.
 
“Time Agents,” sighed Ianto, “You are all the bloody same!”
 
“Really?” Dark eyebrows rose, “And how much experience has a 20th century kid got with Time Agents, plural? There’s only been two that you have known and you know me a lot more thoroughly than her!”
 
“Three,” said Ianto quietly, holding up the correct number of fingers. “I know three of you intimately, and in a lot of ways, you are all the bloody same!”
 
“Oi, I am not like Him!” The affront was obvious “Great big repressed lump of immortal. Nah, I’m much more fun, and I’ve got one big advantage over the Farmboy”
 
“Oh yeah, and what’s that?”
 
“I’m here,” and with that the speaker took the remaining two steps towards Ianto and swept him into a tight hug before kissing him. Ianto lost himself completely in the kiss. It seemed like years since he had been simply kissed for the sheer pleasure of it. No agenda, no plan, no secrets, no need to keep the brain engaged, just the simple movement of lips and tongue and teeth. Slowly, breathing heavily, they parted, Ianto feeling very light-headed and almost woozy from the sensations.
 
“So, your place, my place or hotel?”
 
Ianto looked up, shaking his head slightly to clear it, white pricking at the edge of his vision. “H-hotel,” he managed to stutter out before a wave of blackness overtook him and he fell into a dead faint.


From:
Anonymous( )Anonymous This account has disabled anonymous posting.
OpenID( )OpenID You can comment on this post while signed in with an account from many other sites, once you have confirmed your email address. Sign in using OpenID.
User
Account name:
Password:
If you don't have an account you can create one now.
Subject:
HTML doesn't work in the subject.

Message:

 
Notice: This account is set to log the IP addresses of everyone who comments.
Links will be displayed as unclickable URLs to help prevent spam.

Profile

kitty_scribble: (Default)
kitty_scribble

July 2012

S M T W T F S
12345 67
891011121314
15161718 192021
22232425262728
293031    

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Jul. 26th, 2017 04:34 pm
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios