sam_storyteller (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-17 03:17 pm
sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-17 03:17 pm
Your Face Is Turned, 2/9
Title: Your Face Is Turned
Part: 2 of 9
Rating: R
Summary: Lo Boeshane has a promising career ahead of him as he enters his first year of Fleet Officer Training, but the war is still with him and life at Quantico Station can be difficult. Meanwhile, Ianto Jones is just trying to figure out why the Doctor kidnapped him to the fifty-first century and why Jack abandoned him at a school for the Fleet's military elite. He suspects it may have something to do with Lo, but his attempts to help the troubled young veteran may damage his own timestream beyond repair.
Beta Credit: I owe![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
thaddeusfavour for actually getting me to do something with this and cruentum for cheering me on in the process. I also owe 51stcenturyfox, gypsylady, neifile7, and spiderine for their excellent beta work and commentary. All of the Ask!Kids helped, really, setting me straight and keeping me going.
CHAPTER TWO
The first-year students began arriving not long after Lo had, ten days before the start of classes. Sergeant -- as far as Lo could puzzle out, he had no other name -- marshalled them into squads and marched them in groups to have their heads shaved by a handful of station staff.
"Should be you in there along with them," Sergeant said, when he caught Lo leaning around the doorway of the makeshift barber-shop, watching the shaving in action. Lo didn't answer. "Well, what do you think of them?"
"Why's he crying?" Lo asked, indicating one boy with long black hair, who was weeping silently as it was shaved off.
"Vanity, I expect," Sergeant said. "Or fear."
"Doesn't he want to be here?"
Sergeant gave him a narrow look. "Some folk come whether they like it or not. Boy's probably from some old military family. Your parents military?"
"Colonists," Lo replied.
"Huh. That's not what I hear."
Lo looked at him sharply. That was the second time someone had hinted on the station that he was not strictly Levy's protege for professional reasons. It didn't matter to him what they thought, but it mattered to the memory of his father.
"Well, then you heard wrong, sir," he said, and walked away from the barbershop. The next time he saw the Skins, they all looked so alike with their bare heads that he couldn't even pick out which one of them had been crying. There were no aliens, he noticed. Or if there were, he supposed they were identical to the humans.
The Skins did sleep in barracks, unlike the upperclassmen; Lo had found the empty barracks while exploring the station, and thought them rather creepy. They were comfortingly familiar when full of people, but he never went there once the Skins arrived. They were not his people, and in some ways he preferred to kick around the station alone, learning its secrets, a solitary black-coated crow occasionally disappearing into a side-hall as the dun-uniformed Skins ran laps through the station.
Their schedule was something he learned off quickly: they had muster and drill at 0500, chow at 0700, inspection, orientation, more chow, more drill, more orientation, and the gym before dinner. The only time he ever really bothered to be in the area was for the run from the gym to the showers; some perverse architect had put the communal shower down a long public hallway from the gym, and he enjoyed leaning indolently in the corridor, watching naked Skins of both genders run past. He suspected, though he would have to ask some Senior Cadet when they arrived, that Skin referred not to their shaved heads but to the daily naked run. They never looked at him; if he passed one in the hall, the Skin would avert his or her eyes.
***
Ianto woke to the sound of tapping, arrhythmic and soft. He was lying on his right side, as he always was these days, to keep the pressure off the burns on his face and left shoulder. His head felt clear -- really clear, for the first time in a while -- and yet there was no pain, either. He opened his eyes.
"You're awake," said a voice, and he followed a column of green up to a face at the top -- someone standing next to his bed in a green jumpsuit, the fabric smooth, no zips or buttons or snaps. The face itself was androgynous, framed by short straight hair, with friendly eyes just a shade off hazel. The tapping, Ianto saw, was caused by the doctor using a stylus to write something out on the screen of a hand-held computer.
"I'm Dr. Markov," the -- person? Ianto wasn't sure of gender -- said. "How do you feel?"
Ianto tried to sit up, and mostly succeeded; Dr. Markov caught him under his good shoulder and helped. He was naked, except for some tan bandages on his chest and a sheet covering him from the hips down. The room was warm.
"Nothing hurts," he said, still surprised by it.
"Good, that means the blocks are working," Dr. Markov replied. "We were a little uncertain they would; you have some unique physiology. Any non-human species in your family tree?"
Ianto gaped at the doctor. "No!"
"Well, no need to be offended, I'm sure," Dr. Markov said, sounding amused. "Whereabouts do you hail from? Admiral Levy didn't give us much information, but your injuries are pretty obviously maltreated. I'm guessing...outer planets, colony skirmishes with the Flyers?"
"Admiral Levy," Ianto said. "Tall man, brown hair, grey uniform? Cleft chin, blue eyes?"
"Yes, that's right," Dr. Markov said.
"Ah," Ianto said. "I...uh. Probably shouldn't tell you anything more."
Dr. Markov nodded. "Classified. I understand. We treat a few of those here. Still, I wish the Admiral had thought to get you to a proper military hospital station. Dragging you across the sector just to get you to Earth didn't do your wounds any favours. These are what, a week old?"
"Something like that," Ianto murmured.
"Hm. Well. We'll get you fixed up, never fear." Dr. Markov nodded at his wounds. "We've already cleared and treated the wounds and slapped some nuskin on you. Because of the age of the injuries you'll probably be in treatment for a few months at least but aside from some character lines on your face, you shouldn't scar. Good thing too, gorgeous."
Ianto stared as the doctor winked at him and swept out. He still hadn't managed to determine Markov's gender. There was a knock on the door as it swung shut, and a familiar face appeared around the edge of it.
"Jack," Ianto hissed, as Jack walked into the room. "What the hell is going on? You had me timenapped?"
"I can explain everything," Jack said, holding up his hands.
"Good! Get on that!" Ianto ordered.
"Man, I forgot what a firecracker you were," Jack said with a grin, leaning hip-cocked against his bed. "Couldn't forget that pretty face, though."
Ianto reached up, almost touching the left side of his face, blocking most of it from view. Jack took his wrist lightly and pulled it away.
"Get one of the docs to show you a mirror," he said. "You look okay. You might have one little scar here, I think..." he drew a finger down Ianto's forehead, hairline to brow, "and maybe one or two around the ear. Ears, tricky things. Anyway."
"What year is it, Jack?"
"You should call me Admiral Levy. It's my name right now."
Ianto glared at him. Jack blinked.
"I definitely don't remember that look," he said. "It's the fifty-first century. 5086. My home time."
"Jesus Christ, Jack!"
"Look, I didn't want to do this! It's just what had to happen, because it has happened," Jack said. "There's a whole chain of events here, wrapped up in the flow of time, and for who-knows-what reason, you're part of it. It doesn't hurt that I can get you the best medical treatment five millennia of human experience can provide. This is a good thing. You -- would not have been quite as pretty if you'd been left in the 21st."
Ianto looked down at his hands, tangled in the sheet that was all that was preserving his dignity.
"Do I get to go home again?" he asked softly.
"I wouldn't strand you here," Jack replied, sounding so annoyed that Ianto glanced up at him. "Of course you -- what makes you think you wouldn't get to go home again?"
"Well, I don't know, do I?" Ianto asked. "For all I know this only works in one direction."
Jack ran a hand through his hair. "Sorry. It's been three thousand years, I forget what level of technology we were at back then. Okay. I'm going to see about taking you out of here for a little while, get you some coffee, we'll talk, all right?"
Ianto smiled. "You remember the coffee."
"Well, I try," Jack said modestly. "I'll be back soon."
"Jack," Ianto called, just before Jack disappeared out the door.
"Hm?" Jack asked, leaning back in.
"Look, could you find me some clothes while you're at it?"
Jack laughed -- the same laugh, the same laugh, and it was so strange that Jack should be the same after three thousand years.
"Check the dresser," he said, and pointed at a slight protrusion in the wall to the left of the bed. Then he was gone.
Ianto got up and stood in front of the protrusion, the sheet still wrapped around his waist for modesty's sake. He waved a hand in front of it; nothing. he looked around suspiciously and then whispered "Open!" at it. No response. Finally he ran his fingers down the side and found a latch; when he unhooked it, the front swung out to reveal a row of drawers. The whole construction seemed needlessly complicated given he was now living in The Future.
The deep top drawer had the backpack stuffed in it; he pulled it out and opened it and almost laughed aloud. Jack had apparently packed him for The Future without thinking much about it. No clothing or toiletries -- just two James Bond books, his iPod, his favourite tie, a can of Hob Nobs, a handful of chocolate bars, and a freeze-dried packet of coffee. He set the backpack aside, still chuckling, and looked in the other drawers. Here was clothing, but not his own; perhaps this new Jack had bought it, or perhaps it came with the room. There were trousers with no elastic or belt loops, a strange sleeveless shirt with no collar, a box full of collars like the one with a buckle at the front that Jack wore, and a drawer full of pants.
Underwear hadn't changed much, which was a comforting constant in a world suddenly turned upside down. Ianto found himself standing naked in front of 51st Century Ikea Furniture, clutching a pair of boxer-briefs tightly, wondering if he'd get to drive a flying car.
***
Lo had never really been properly paid, as a Corporal, though they'd given the soldiers money when they had some to spare. If he'd needed something, he'd gone to the Quartermaster; if he'd simply wanted something, he'd bargained for it or done without. Here, at Quantico, he was startled to find he had a credit account funded by an Academy scholarship, and access to an actual store where he could spend his credits.
The little store stocked everything from civs to cookies to shampoo, and had a whole wall dedicated to a dizzying array of bottled drinks, something Lo had never encountered on Boeshane or in the military. He covertly began sampling them systematically, but they were all too sweet for his taste and the Mango Fizz tasted nothing like the mangos he'd had from the trees back home. Mostly he bought simple food from the shop, meat and bread and vegetables. Cooking his own food was a strange luxury he hadn't had in some time and he enjoyed it, though nothing ever tasted quite the same as it had when his parents had cooked for him as a child.
He studied the station. He studied the rules. He'd heard Sergeant drilling the Skins in the Academy handbook's procedures, and he didn't want to be caught short when some Skin knew some rule he didn't.
A few days after the Skins arrived, the professors began to arrive too. Lo kept well out of their way, learning their names from their system profiles. Sometimes he was called to take placement exams, but most of the exams consisted simply of himself, a secure porterminal, and a timer. The only teacher he spoke with directly was the third-year Comportment instructor, a short, stern alien named Kraf who sniffed at his Attention stance and found fault with the fit of his shirt. It was also first time he'd spoken with an alien who didn't actively want to kill him; there had been a few on the trip from the hospital station to Earth, but he'd kept clear of them. When he met Kraf he knew he mustn't show fear, even though he probably already had.
"You're from the colonies, aren't you?" Kraf asked, when he was done criticising him.
"Yessir," Lo replied.
"Boeshane -- that's your planet of origin, not your surname?"
"Haven't got a surname, sir."
One of Kraf's eyestalks lifted slightly, giving new meaning to the term "eyeballed". Lo continued to stand to attention.
"You're afraid of me," Kraf told him.
Lo swallowed and considered his answer briefly. Comportment; that meant honour, carriage, and honesty. "Yessir."
"Because I'm your teacher, or because I'm not human?"
"Both, sir."
Kraf paced around him, his five lower legs carrying him in an effortless gliding motion. "Shine the backs of your boots more."
"Yessir."
When he had completed a full circle, Kraf made a noise halfway between approval and throat-clearing. "The xenophobia of humans with regards to their system security is widely known outside of their species. You are arrogant children who happen to be fast learners. While my species may respect your ingenuity, we do not acknowledge your superiority and we do not condone your exclusivity, particularly at this training school. Will you have a problem taking orders from me?"
"Nosir," Lo said sharply.
"Why not?"
"Fear is a self-imposed emotion, sir," Lo replied. Kraf's eyestalks contracted.
"Where did you learn that, young man?" he asked, his voice quieter than before.
"43rd Guerilla batallion under Sergeant Marquist, sir."
"Do you know why a man with five legs is teaching you how to wear two-legged trousers properly? Take a minute to consider it," Kraf said.
Lo did as he was told, and then licked his lips before answering. "I assume you're the best, sir."
"And that is because...?"
"You're an alien teaching at a humans-only academy, sir."
"At ease," Kraf said, and Lo relaxed a fraction. "You are approved for third-year entry to my comportment course. Shine your goddamn boots, Cadet, and get a new shirt. You're dismissed."
"Thank you, sir," Lo said, and left as quickly as he felt he could without insulting him. Kraf did scare him; his heart beat double-time when he'd seen him, and he'd fought hard against the instinct to cower. In a rustbucket, he was invincible; on the ground, such as it was, and face to face with an alien, all the terror and pain of imprisonment with the Flyers had washed over him. Now, in the corridor outside Kraf's office, he crouched down against the wall and sucked in deep breaths against the lingering panic.
Kraf meant him no harm, he could see that; Lo wasn't stupid, and he wasn't an animal to be tied to his instincts. Kraf spoke directly, asked direct questions, and did not punish honesty. Lo had no need to anticipate games with Kraf. That was something, at least.
***
Ianto was in the hospital for three days before he was deemed fit enough to travel; Dr. Markov told him that if he'd been treated sooner he could have left in the space of a few hours, but they had to be sure he hadn't picked up anything nasty and that he wouldn't reject the nuskin. Ianto poked at the bandages in the mirror sometimes; they were warm, and felt like real skin, but there was no sensation where he touched them. Every day around three o'clock someone came in to peel the skin off his face and put new (nu, hah) skin on it. It was gross, but he had to admit it was effective, and apparently at some point the nuskin would permanently bond to the healing skin underneath, which was what would prevent scarring.
Jack came to visit him every day. Which in some ways, Ianto thought, was worse than the other Jack not visiting at all the week before.
He liked getting out of the hospital for a few minutes, to the place across the street. It sold what was apparently standard coffee for the 51st; too sweet, not hot enough, but the caffeine rush was the same. He liked seeing Jack, too. It was just that they didn't end up having much to talk about. But Jack talked a lot, and Ianto was used to that, so it was all one in the end.
Jack obviously remembered him, but he didn't really remember him. Just a name, a few details, the knowledge that once they'd been lovers, and a vague sense that Ianto had perhaps not been his usual casual fling.
"It's a bit of a blow to the ego, you know," Ianto told him on the day he was discharged. He had the backpack next to him on the bench-seat at the diner, filled now not just with his books and iPod and snacks but most of the clothing from the dresser as well. It packed down neatly. He watched Jack's fingers flitting from coffee cup to sugar spork to saucer. "Though I suppose I should be pleased you remembered me this long."
Jack smiled. "Sorry. I try to keep what I can, but it starts to slip away. Seeing you sometimes triggers things..."
Ianto shrugged. "I knew you'd outlive me."
"Three thousand years isn't a bad record. There are people I knew last year I can't place now," Jack told him with a grin.
Ianto changed the subject, because it made him feel uncomfortable and vaguely sad.
"So...I don't think we can be speaking English," he said. "Not my English anyway."
Jack shook his head. "We're not. Gift of the TARDIS."
Ianto frowned.
"It gets in your head," Jack said. "It flips some little switch, maybe, I don't know much about it. We're speaking Galactic Standard Low. But if someone speaks to you in Galactic Standard High, or any one of another thousand languages, you'd still hear it as English."
"That's...creepy," Ianto said.
"Useful, though," Jack replied. "Try not to think too hard about it."
Jack had said that a lot, while teaching Ianto as much as he could; he seemed to think it was important that he know how to integrate, even though it apparently wouldn't even need to be a secret that he was a time traveler.
They finished their drinks and Jack paid the bill; they stepped out on the street and there he was, Ianto Jones, Chrono-displaced asylum seeker, next of kin Admiral Brian Levy.
"You're not staying, are you?" he asked. "With me, I mean."
Jack shook his head and guided him down the pavement, towards a dark vehicle that was obviously waiting for them near the hospital. "I can't. And I can't take you with me."
"What am I supposed to do, then?" Ianto asked. Jack opened the door and held it for him, then climbed in after him. Ianto realised he was sitting in what could best be described as a hover-sedan.
"I've arranged a job for you," Jack said, passing him a shiny new porterminal. He'd seen them in the hospital, even been allowed to use one to set up an email account and visit "the Wik", a sprawling descendant of Wikipedia. The porterminals looked a little like the demon spawn of an iPhone and a GPS unit, but he had to admit they were useful, and they worked with everything. Apparently platform incompatibility was a thing of the past.
Ianto flicked on the porterminal screen and found that he was looking down at his own face: a photograph taken in the hospital, the doctors had said for records purposes. Next to it was a title, and a little bio.
"A librarian?" he asked Jack, looking up. "You got me a job as a librarian?"
Jack leaned back on the seat of the hover-sedan and smiled. "It'll keep you out of trouble."
"I don't know anything about being a librarian in the future," Ianto protested. He looked back down and his eyes widened. "A military librarian?"
"You spent two years as Torchwood's archivist," Jack said.
"You remember that?" Ianto asked, momentarily distracted.
"I checked the records," Jack confessed.
"You can be such a bastard sometimes -- "
"You'll do fine," Jack interrupted. "It's a small library on Quantico Station. You'll be half an hour's flight from Earth the whole time. You do a year there while you get some rehab for your face, and then we'll get you home again."
"Why can't I stay with you?" Ianto asked. Jack looked -- hesitant, as if he'd been about to make a joke and decided it wasn't the time for it.
"There's still a war on," he said. "I'm going back to the front after I see you settled. And it's not a good idea, anyway. I could reveal too much about your future -- your immediate future on Earth, I mean, when you get to your home time again. I might not even mean to do it."
"So it's me and a load of strangers in a century I know nothing about," Ianto said.
"Well....yes," Jack answered, sighing. "But it won't be hard. Quantico Station is the military academy for the fleet. You'll be with a couple of academics, a few soldiers, and fifteen hundred trainees. They'll respect you. It's safe there," he insisted. "I don't know why I brought you forward. I only know that I had to, because I remembered having done it. So all I can do is try to keep you as safe as possible."
The hover-sedan (seriously, a hover-sedan) pulled to a gentle halt, and Jack beamed at him. "Besides, you're gonna love my spaceship. Come on."
***
The morning after his encounter with Kraf, Lo found a message on Memo Base ordering him to MedBay at 0930. He made breakfast, checked that the backs of his boots were properly polished, studied the handbook for an hour, and then reported as ordered. MedBay gave him bad memories of his first few days after escaping from the Flyers, when he'd been confined to a shipboard MedBay before being transferred to a proper military hospital -- but they were just memories, and he had worse.
"Cadet Lo Boeshane, reporting per orders," he said to the duty nurse. She barely looked up; just tapped something into her porterminal and studied the screen.
"Chaplain Sergeant Burton will see you," she said, and walked away. Lo watched her for a second, wondering if he should follow, then ran to catch up. She continued on around a corner and past a row of doors, rapping smartly on the furthest but one. Lo counted the other doorways while they waited.
"Come in," someone called from inside, and she opened the door, gesturing him through. Lo passed into a small office and glanced around quickly even as he snapped to attention. You never knew how much you'd need to know about a place.
There was a database port in the left wall, a scroll screen on the right showing a slowly rotating planet Earth; straight ahead, a wall of old paper books, mixed in with random knick-knacks. A desk in front of him, too, with a lean man behind it, in the most bizarre uniform Lo had ever seen. It was a brightly-coloured, garishly-patterned shirt, with an open collar and insignia stripes obviously hand-sewn onto the short sleeves.
"At ease," the man said. "Cadet Boeshane, yes?"
"Yessir," Lo said.
"Have a seat, Cadet. You must be the Ghost," the man told him, and Lo frowned. "I'm Chaplain Burton, I'm in charge of mental health services and spiritual counseling here at the Academy."
"I know, sir," Lo said, before he could stop himself.
"You do?" the Chaplain raised an eyebrow.
"Yessir. I found your profile on the system page."
"Let's...ease up on the sir a little," Chaplain Burton said. "Most of the cadets just call me Chaplain."
Lo nodded. "Yes, Chaplain."
Chaplain made a quick wry face and then continued. "I've been monitoring your performance in your placement exams. You've done better than anticipated, I think; you'll be fine in third-year for most of your courses. Composition, Tactics, Comportment -- Kraf had some very interesting observations about you."
"I bet he did, Chaplain," Lo said with a small grin. Chaplain grinned back.
"You're a little iffy in Science but we're going to put you in third year and hope for the best. Smitty thinks you can catch up quickly. Pendleton actually thinks you should be in fourth-year mathematics, but he's basing that on your navigational trig, and there's more to life than navigation. You're extremely sketchy in history, but I think you probably know this."
"I know the history of Boeshane, Chaplain." Lo said. "And military history back to the late 23rd century."
"Earth History, kiddo. Earth history," Chaplain replied. "Learn it, love it."
Lo stifled the urge to complain about the relevance of Earth history, and he thought he'd done a good job, but Chaplain caught it.
"You have an objection to Earth history, Lo?"
"Don't see why I need it, Chaplain. I know the colonisation era, all the relevant military history, and my home planet's history," he pointed out.
"Aren't you interested in where you came from?"
"With all due respect, Chaplain, I came from Boeshane, by way of the 43rd Guerilla Battallion," Lo told him.
He expected a frown or an objection, but instead Chaplain laughed.
"All right then, Cadet, consider it a hoop to jump through before you have to graduate. It won't be the last. I'll send a copy of your course registration to your account. After this semester, you'll be responsible for your own registration; study the course catalog and if you have any questions speak to your academics advisor. Who I see is...hm." He looked down at his porterminal. "Kraf asked specifically to be your advisor. He must have taken a shine to you."
"Likes to tell me my shirt's not tucked right," Lo replied daringly. Chaplain laughed again.
"On to other matters," he said. "Admiral Cullen sent me word that you're coming here from a battle zone, is that right?"
"Yes, Chaplain."
"Did you have any counseling when you were demobbed?" Chaplain asked, with a sort of...careful air.
"No, Chaplain," Lo shook his head.
"Whyever not?"
"Didn't know I should, Chaplain."
"Well, you definitely should," Chaplain replied. "I'd like to see you on a weekly basis, to start, to discuss any lingering effects you have. You'll be here for checkups on your injuries, so we'll just incorporate it as part of your treatment. Sound good to you?"
"Yes, Chaplain."
Chaplain sighed. "Okay. For now, that's all. Did you have any questions?"
Lo considered this. He could ask why he was supposed to be counseled, and what on; or he could ask about the professors, he supposed. But either might be signs of weakness.
"Earlier you said I must be the Ghost," he said. "What ghost?"
Chaplain looked surprised. "You didn't know? It's what the Skins call you. Sergeant has them half-convinced you're not real. They think you're a lucky charm -- you know, if they see you in the hallway they'll do well at drill, or some nonsense like that. Soldiers are very superstitious, I've found."
"Oh," Lo said, uncertainly.
"How does that make you feel?"
Lo frowned. "Should it make me feel something, Chaplain?"
"Well -- pride, annoyance, dismay, arrogance -- surely you feel something, Lo? Five hundred kids think you're something incorporeal, only there for their benefit."
"Doesn't matter," Lo said. "They're nothing to do with me."
Being thought a monster by monsters had been far worse, anyway.
"Lo, tell me what you were just thinking," Chaplain said, and Lo started. "I need you to tell me what you think, so I can help you figure out if it's okay or not."
"They're my thoughts," Lo said, suddenly annoyed. "Why wouldn't they be okay to think?"
Chaplain just looked at him, patient, silent, like the Flyers used to.
"I've had worse, Chaplain," Lo said, finally.
"Like what?"
"In the war, the Flyers thought I was a monster. They thought my family was target practice," Lo said, because that was at least partway to the truth of what he'd been thinking. "I don't mind being a ghost to a bunch of people who can't hurt me, Chaplain."
Another long, measuring look. Lo fought the urge to squirm.
"We'll talk about this more next week," Chaplain said. "Until then, focus on your upcoming classes, all right? Check your schedule, download any course materials, learn your way around the station."
"Yes, Chaplain," Lo said. For practice, he mentally called up the map of the section they were in and mapped out three different escape routes to the shuttle bay should the Flyers hit the station.
"You're dismissed," Chaplain told him, with what he recognised as kindness, though he wasn't sure why.
Lo walked out into the hall, down to the front station. He checked in with the nurse to be sure nothing further was required, then left MedBay entirely and went to his room. He took his boots off, sat down on the bed, and called up his new courses.
Ten minutes later, while he was reading the notes for his first Composition lecture, the text began to blur; it took him a second to realise he was crying, and he didn't know why. He drew his knees up to his chest, set the porterminal aside, and buried his face in the comforting, slightly scratchy fabric of his trousers. He'd get snot on them, but they'd wash.
He gave himself precisely two and a half minutes to cry, and then tried wiping the tears away, staring at a seam in the wall of his room to distract him from -- it, from whatever was hurting so badly. Loneliness, he decided, as he shed his uniform shirt and shucked off his trousers, reaching for the neatly-folded pyjama bottoms at the foot of the bed. He hadn't really talked to anyone since arriving, hadn't had sex in ages.
Sex was probably it.
He didn't bother to pull the pyjamas up all the way; just leaned back against the headboard and lifted his hips enough to get his underwear down. He didn't dare picture Mirra, the girl he'd seen bathing on Boe and the star of many imaginative scenarios when he'd been an undersexed rookie with the 43rd; instead he rolled through the soldiers he'd slept with, the doctor on the hospital ship with her gentle hands, the tourists on the transport -- and Admiral Levy, who had sent him here, who had politely declined his brief unspoken offer. Admiral Levy was handsome and seemed like he understood, and he'd had that gorgeous ship, oh such a lovely ship --
Lo knew it was probably messed up to jerk himself off thinking of a ship, even a ship like Amelia, but he hadn't felt so alive in months as when he'd bolted her out of the docking bay, and he couldn't really find it in himself to be upset that he came while handling himself like he'd handle her control yoke.
Exhausted, sniffly, and still sad in a way he couldn't even identify, he cleaned himself up and fell asleep on his bed in the middle of the morning.
***
Quantico Station reminded Ianto of nothing so much as a shopping centre, one of the big malls like they had in London and were building in the Cardiff suburbs. It didn't look like one, physically; it was all steel walls and bright lights, hallways and doors. It just had that same air about it, of a totally enclosed and self-sufficient space, which he supposed it was. He kept expecting one of the doors to open into a Debenhams.
He was still reeling a little bit from the flight -- seeing Earth from space had been staggering, to say nothing of the speed of the ship and its disconcerting habit of talking to him, remarking on his good looks and asking Jack questions about him. He was content to let Jack handle his check-in with a cranky-looking sergeant and then follow Jack through the corridors until they came to a pair of wide glass doors. Inside there was an enormous round desk covered in evenly-spaced lamps, and several walls of books.
"Behold," Jack said, spreading his arms. "Your library."
Ianto looked around. "It's not very futuristic, is it?"
"Au contraire," Jack corrected, and led him to one enormous blank wall covered in some kind of data ports. "Plug your porterminal into any of these and you have access to the entirety of human literary history. There's a pretty good selection of alien works, too. The books are mostly for show."
"So I see," Ianto said, turning to study one of the shelves. It was dusty, which was weird; you didn't think about dust in space stations.
"You can clean it later," Jack told him, taking his hand as he raised it to wipe dust off the spine of a book. He pulled him gently along past the books to a door in the back, which led straight into a sitting room, with a long counter dividing it from a kitchen.
"Home," Jack told him.
"I live in a library," Ianto replied.
"You live next to a library," Jack corrected. "What do you think?"
Ianto had to admit it was nice, nicer than his place in Cardiff. There were windows -- no, scroll screens, that was the term -- set into every wall, showing various views of Earth, the stars, planets that might or might not belong in his solar system. The furniture looked soft and inviting, and the tables and shelves were made of wood. The kitchen had a few boxy objects he couldn't immediately identify. The walls were soft pastel yellow, unlike the steel walls of the rest of the station.
"It's nice," he said uncertainly. Jack opened his mouth to reply, but there was a buzz from behind them before he could.
"Come in," Jack called. The door opened and a slight, young-looking woman entered.
"Admiral Levy," she said, with a little half-bow. "Sarge notified me that Mr. Jones had arrived."
"He has," Jack replied. "Ianto, this is Steward...?"
"Steward Blithe, sir," she said.
"Steward Blithe. She's a sort of support-staff for the instructors. Blithe, this is Ianto Jones."
"Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Jones," she said. "I thought I'd come by and say hello."
"The Steward can answer any questions you have," Jack told him. "She can get you anything you can't get on the station, look after things if you need help, that kind of thing. She knows everything about the station."
"She's me," Ianto whispered to Jack.
"She's hot," Jack whispered back. Blithe looked unconcerned by their exchange.
"Did you need anything, Mr. Jones?" she asked, when Ianto looked at her again. "I've stocked your coldbox with some food, and I understand as a chrono-displaced resident you may be unfamiliar with some of the equipment in your quarters."
"No, that's -- thank you, I don't...need anything right now," Ianto said. "You're, erm. Dismissed?"
She smiled at him, gave them both another half-bow, and left quickly. Ianto stared at the door, uncertain how to even start to gather his scattered wits.
"The station will send you a schedule and Blithe can get you up to speed, when you're ready," Jack said finally, turning to face him. "This is where I leave you, I'm afraid."
"Jack..." Ianto wanted to say something about how he was just being dumped here, with no preparation and no real knowledge of why, but he couldn't figure out how. He was tired, and his clothes were all wrong, and he'd just been introduced to someone who did a job that really should be his, and there was no Torchwood, and he wasn't in Cardiff, and he missed Gwen and his Jack, the Jack that knew him and didn't have grey in his hair.
"I'm sorry," Jack said softly, as if he could read his mind. "Don't be scared."
"Too late," Ianto answered.
"You'll be fine." Jack ran a hand down his arm, squeezed his fingers, and stepped in close. "I trust you. Trust yourself."
Ianto nodded, looking away from Jack's eyes. Jack touched his cheek, turned him back so that they faced each other, and kissed him.
It was meant to be a kiss goodbye. Ianto was fully aware of that. But he'd been shot and drugged, and then kidnapped by an alien, and taken here to this space station that he didn't know anything about, and the one familiar thing in the world right now was Jack kissing him. It was instinct that made him open his mouth, tilt his head and deepen the kiss.
Jack didn't pull away. Instead he inhaled slightly and closed the gap between them, pulling Ianto's body flush with his, one hand on his face and the other on his hip. Jack still tasted like the too-sweet coffee they'd had at the diner.
Ianto tilted his head back when Jack slid his mouth down to his jaw, along the line of his throat, and now Jack's fingers were on the buckle of the stupid shirt collar everyone wore, undoing it, pulling the snaps apart, working down the buttons on his shirt. Three thousand years in the future and they still had buttons, and Ianto was pulling Jack's shirt out of his weird beltless trousers.
"This, I remember," Jack said against the skin of his shoulder, but Ianto was busy backing him towards a door that hopefully led to the bedroom and not the loo --
Yes, a bedroom, with a large bed and two sleek nightstands and an enormous dark scroll screen, but the bed looked comfortable and the blanket was soft when he fell back onto it, still scrambling to get Jack out of his trousers. They'd left their shoes somewhere near the door.
In the dark of the bedroom he couldn't see the grey at Jack's temples. He could feel his body, though, the smooth skin, the unchanging shape of Jack's chest and hips, a comforting sameness. Jack was still kissing his shoulders and biting gently at his throat, rocking against him as they settled onto the bed. There was something almost endearingly desperate about it, when Ianto knew full well Jack couldn't possibly remember the last time they'd had sex (against Ianto's kitchen counter, the morning he was shot). Jack had probably had tons of it since, especially as this century was supposedly famous for everyone having sex all the time.
Or maybe he just liked that Ianto called him Jack, when everyone else called him Admiral.
He was getting close, he could feel it, and he could tell by Jack's moans (god, Jack really hadn't changed, at least not in this) that he was too. He pulled Jack's face up and kissed him again, and Jack cried out into his mouth and came, and Ianto barely had time to wonder how one did laundry in The Future when he came as well.
There had to be some kind of name for this, like the Mile High club. The Century Ahead club, perhaps.
He let his head fall back while he caught his breath, Jack sprawled on top of him and mumbling incoherently against his chest. After a while that stopped, and Ianto lifted a hand, unseeing, to run it through Jack's hair.
"That wasn't supposed to happen," Jack said, muffled a little where his face was pressed to Ianto's skin.
"Well, I hear this is a very liberated century," Ianto replied. Jack laughed and pulled himself up, resting his elbows on either side of Ianto's arms, looking down at him.
"Thank you," he said, with such sincerity that Ianto's heart broke for him a little. Then Jack rolled away, off the bed, and reached for his shirt. He looked at it, shrugged, and cleaned himself up with it; when Ianto stood, Jack stopped him with a hand on his chest and did the same for him.
"You have to leave," Ianto said, half-questioning.
"Yeah. Galaxies to save, you know how it is," Jack replied, not looking at him as he pulled on his trousers. He tossed the shirt in a little box nearby, which hummed briefly and then beeped and spat it up clean.
"Convenient," Ianto remarked, gesturing at the box.
"Sometimes," Jack agreed, shrugging the shirt on. Ianto found his own clothing and began dressing again. "You'll be fine here."
"Of course." Ianto hesitated, but what the hell did he have to lose at this point? "Will you be back?"
"If I can," Jack answered. He leaned in and kissed him again as Ianto was doing up his shirt. "It's -- "
"Dangerous, yes, we covered that," Ianto drawled.
"I see what I liked about you the first time around," Jack told him. "Collar straight?"
"Impeccable," Ianto answered, and walked him to the door. "Jack..."
"Hm?" Jack turned as the door opened.
"Be safe," Ianto told him. Jack smiled, saluted him, and walked out.
Ianto stood in the sitting room for a little while, at least as confused as before, and finally summed up the entire horrible week in a single word.
"Fuck," he said feelingly.
Chapter Three
Part: 2 of 9
Rating: R
Summary: Lo Boeshane has a promising career ahead of him as he enters his first year of Fleet Officer Training, but the war is still with him and life at Quantico Station can be difficult. Meanwhile, Ianto Jones is just trying to figure out why the Doctor kidnapped him to the fifty-first century and why Jack abandoned him at a school for the Fleet's military elite. He suspects it may have something to do with Lo, but his attempts to help the troubled young veteran may damage his own timestream beyond repair.
Beta Credit: I owe
thaddeusfavour for actually getting me to do something with this and cruentum for cheering me on in the process. I also owe 51stcenturyfox, gypsylady, neifile7, and spiderine for their excellent beta work and commentary. All of the Ask!Kids helped, really, setting me straight and keeping me going.CHAPTER TWO
The first-year students began arriving not long after Lo had, ten days before the start of classes. Sergeant -- as far as Lo could puzzle out, he had no other name -- marshalled them into squads and marched them in groups to have their heads shaved by a handful of station staff.
"Should be you in there along with them," Sergeant said, when he caught Lo leaning around the doorway of the makeshift barber-shop, watching the shaving in action. Lo didn't answer. "Well, what do you think of them?"
"Why's he crying?" Lo asked, indicating one boy with long black hair, who was weeping silently as it was shaved off.
"Vanity, I expect," Sergeant said. "Or fear."
"Doesn't he want to be here?"
Sergeant gave him a narrow look. "Some folk come whether they like it or not. Boy's probably from some old military family. Your parents military?"
"Colonists," Lo replied.
"Huh. That's not what I hear."
Lo looked at him sharply. That was the second time someone had hinted on the station that he was not strictly Levy's protege for professional reasons. It didn't matter to him what they thought, but it mattered to the memory of his father.
"Well, then you heard wrong, sir," he said, and walked away from the barbershop. The next time he saw the Skins, they all looked so alike with their bare heads that he couldn't even pick out which one of them had been crying. There were no aliens, he noticed. Or if there were, he supposed they were identical to the humans.
The Skins did sleep in barracks, unlike the upperclassmen; Lo had found the empty barracks while exploring the station, and thought them rather creepy. They were comfortingly familiar when full of people, but he never went there once the Skins arrived. They were not his people, and in some ways he preferred to kick around the station alone, learning its secrets, a solitary black-coated crow occasionally disappearing into a side-hall as the dun-uniformed Skins ran laps through the station.
Their schedule was something he learned off quickly: they had muster and drill at 0500, chow at 0700, inspection, orientation, more chow, more drill, more orientation, and the gym before dinner. The only time he ever really bothered to be in the area was for the run from the gym to the showers; some perverse architect had put the communal shower down a long public hallway from the gym, and he enjoyed leaning indolently in the corridor, watching naked Skins of both genders run past. He suspected, though he would have to ask some Senior Cadet when they arrived, that Skin referred not to their shaved heads but to the daily naked run. They never looked at him; if he passed one in the hall, the Skin would avert his or her eyes.
***
Ianto woke to the sound of tapping, arrhythmic and soft. He was lying on his right side, as he always was these days, to keep the pressure off the burns on his face and left shoulder. His head felt clear -- really clear, for the first time in a while -- and yet there was no pain, either. He opened his eyes.
"You're awake," said a voice, and he followed a column of green up to a face at the top -- someone standing next to his bed in a green jumpsuit, the fabric smooth, no zips or buttons or snaps. The face itself was androgynous, framed by short straight hair, with friendly eyes just a shade off hazel. The tapping, Ianto saw, was caused by the doctor using a stylus to write something out on the screen of a hand-held computer.
"I'm Dr. Markov," the -- person? Ianto wasn't sure of gender -- said. "How do you feel?"
Ianto tried to sit up, and mostly succeeded; Dr. Markov caught him under his good shoulder and helped. He was naked, except for some tan bandages on his chest and a sheet covering him from the hips down. The room was warm.
"Nothing hurts," he said, still surprised by it.
"Good, that means the blocks are working," Dr. Markov replied. "We were a little uncertain they would; you have some unique physiology. Any non-human species in your family tree?"
Ianto gaped at the doctor. "No!"
"Well, no need to be offended, I'm sure," Dr. Markov said, sounding amused. "Whereabouts do you hail from? Admiral Levy didn't give us much information, but your injuries are pretty obviously maltreated. I'm guessing...outer planets, colony skirmishes with the Flyers?"
"Admiral Levy," Ianto said. "Tall man, brown hair, grey uniform? Cleft chin, blue eyes?"
"Yes, that's right," Dr. Markov said.
"Ah," Ianto said. "I...uh. Probably shouldn't tell you anything more."
Dr. Markov nodded. "Classified. I understand. We treat a few of those here. Still, I wish the Admiral had thought to get you to a proper military hospital station. Dragging you across the sector just to get you to Earth didn't do your wounds any favours. These are what, a week old?"
"Something like that," Ianto murmured.
"Hm. Well. We'll get you fixed up, never fear." Dr. Markov nodded at his wounds. "We've already cleared and treated the wounds and slapped some nuskin on you. Because of the age of the injuries you'll probably be in treatment for a few months at least but aside from some character lines on your face, you shouldn't scar. Good thing too, gorgeous."
Ianto stared as the doctor winked at him and swept out. He still hadn't managed to determine Markov's gender. There was a knock on the door as it swung shut, and a familiar face appeared around the edge of it.
"Jack," Ianto hissed, as Jack walked into the room. "What the hell is going on? You had me timenapped?"
"I can explain everything," Jack said, holding up his hands.
"Good! Get on that!" Ianto ordered.
"Man, I forgot what a firecracker you were," Jack said with a grin, leaning hip-cocked against his bed. "Couldn't forget that pretty face, though."
Ianto reached up, almost touching the left side of his face, blocking most of it from view. Jack took his wrist lightly and pulled it away.
"Get one of the docs to show you a mirror," he said. "You look okay. You might have one little scar here, I think..." he drew a finger down Ianto's forehead, hairline to brow, "and maybe one or two around the ear. Ears, tricky things. Anyway."
"What year is it, Jack?"
"You should call me Admiral Levy. It's my name right now."
Ianto glared at him. Jack blinked.
"I definitely don't remember that look," he said. "It's the fifty-first century. 5086. My home time."
"Jesus Christ, Jack!"
"Look, I didn't want to do this! It's just what had to happen, because it has happened," Jack said. "There's a whole chain of events here, wrapped up in the flow of time, and for who-knows-what reason, you're part of it. It doesn't hurt that I can get you the best medical treatment five millennia of human experience can provide. This is a good thing. You -- would not have been quite as pretty if you'd been left in the 21st."
Ianto looked down at his hands, tangled in the sheet that was all that was preserving his dignity.
"Do I get to go home again?" he asked softly.
"I wouldn't strand you here," Jack replied, sounding so annoyed that Ianto glanced up at him. "Of course you -- what makes you think you wouldn't get to go home again?"
"Well, I don't know, do I?" Ianto asked. "For all I know this only works in one direction."
Jack ran a hand through his hair. "Sorry. It's been three thousand years, I forget what level of technology we were at back then. Okay. I'm going to see about taking you out of here for a little while, get you some coffee, we'll talk, all right?"
Ianto smiled. "You remember the coffee."
"Well, I try," Jack said modestly. "I'll be back soon."
"Jack," Ianto called, just before Jack disappeared out the door.
"Hm?" Jack asked, leaning back in.
"Look, could you find me some clothes while you're at it?"
Jack laughed -- the same laugh, the same laugh, and it was so strange that Jack should be the same after three thousand years.
"Check the dresser," he said, and pointed at a slight protrusion in the wall to the left of the bed. Then he was gone.
Ianto got up and stood in front of the protrusion, the sheet still wrapped around his waist for modesty's sake. He waved a hand in front of it; nothing. he looked around suspiciously and then whispered "Open!" at it. No response. Finally he ran his fingers down the side and found a latch; when he unhooked it, the front swung out to reveal a row of drawers. The whole construction seemed needlessly complicated given he was now living in The Future.
The deep top drawer had the backpack stuffed in it; he pulled it out and opened it and almost laughed aloud. Jack had apparently packed him for The Future without thinking much about it. No clothing or toiletries -- just two James Bond books, his iPod, his favourite tie, a can of Hob Nobs, a handful of chocolate bars, and a freeze-dried packet of coffee. He set the backpack aside, still chuckling, and looked in the other drawers. Here was clothing, but not his own; perhaps this new Jack had bought it, or perhaps it came with the room. There were trousers with no elastic or belt loops, a strange sleeveless shirt with no collar, a box full of collars like the one with a buckle at the front that Jack wore, and a drawer full of pants.
Underwear hadn't changed much, which was a comforting constant in a world suddenly turned upside down. Ianto found himself standing naked in front of 51st Century Ikea Furniture, clutching a pair of boxer-briefs tightly, wondering if he'd get to drive a flying car.
***
Lo had never really been properly paid, as a Corporal, though they'd given the soldiers money when they had some to spare. If he'd needed something, he'd gone to the Quartermaster; if he'd simply wanted something, he'd bargained for it or done without. Here, at Quantico, he was startled to find he had a credit account funded by an Academy scholarship, and access to an actual store where he could spend his credits.
The little store stocked everything from civs to cookies to shampoo, and had a whole wall dedicated to a dizzying array of bottled drinks, something Lo had never encountered on Boeshane or in the military. He covertly began sampling them systematically, but they were all too sweet for his taste and the Mango Fizz tasted nothing like the mangos he'd had from the trees back home. Mostly he bought simple food from the shop, meat and bread and vegetables. Cooking his own food was a strange luxury he hadn't had in some time and he enjoyed it, though nothing ever tasted quite the same as it had when his parents had cooked for him as a child.
He studied the station. He studied the rules. He'd heard Sergeant drilling the Skins in the Academy handbook's procedures, and he didn't want to be caught short when some Skin knew some rule he didn't.
A few days after the Skins arrived, the professors began to arrive too. Lo kept well out of their way, learning their names from their system profiles. Sometimes he was called to take placement exams, but most of the exams consisted simply of himself, a secure porterminal, and a timer. The only teacher he spoke with directly was the third-year Comportment instructor, a short, stern alien named Kraf who sniffed at his Attention stance and found fault with the fit of his shirt. It was also first time he'd spoken with an alien who didn't actively want to kill him; there had been a few on the trip from the hospital station to Earth, but he'd kept clear of them. When he met Kraf he knew he mustn't show fear, even though he probably already had.
"You're from the colonies, aren't you?" Kraf asked, when he was done criticising him.
"Yessir," Lo replied.
"Boeshane -- that's your planet of origin, not your surname?"
"Haven't got a surname, sir."
One of Kraf's eyestalks lifted slightly, giving new meaning to the term "eyeballed". Lo continued to stand to attention.
"You're afraid of me," Kraf told him.
Lo swallowed and considered his answer briefly. Comportment; that meant honour, carriage, and honesty. "Yessir."
"Because I'm your teacher, or because I'm not human?"
"Both, sir."
Kraf paced around him, his five lower legs carrying him in an effortless gliding motion. "Shine the backs of your boots more."
"Yessir."
When he had completed a full circle, Kraf made a noise halfway between approval and throat-clearing. "The xenophobia of humans with regards to their system security is widely known outside of their species. You are arrogant children who happen to be fast learners. While my species may respect your ingenuity, we do not acknowledge your superiority and we do not condone your exclusivity, particularly at this training school. Will you have a problem taking orders from me?"
"Nosir," Lo said sharply.
"Why not?"
"Fear is a self-imposed emotion, sir," Lo replied. Kraf's eyestalks contracted.
"Where did you learn that, young man?" he asked, his voice quieter than before.
"43rd Guerilla batallion under Sergeant Marquist, sir."
"Do you know why a man with five legs is teaching you how to wear two-legged trousers properly? Take a minute to consider it," Kraf said.
Lo did as he was told, and then licked his lips before answering. "I assume you're the best, sir."
"And that is because...?"
"You're an alien teaching at a humans-only academy, sir."
"At ease," Kraf said, and Lo relaxed a fraction. "You are approved for third-year entry to my comportment course. Shine your goddamn boots, Cadet, and get a new shirt. You're dismissed."
"Thank you, sir," Lo said, and left as quickly as he felt he could without insulting him. Kraf did scare him; his heart beat double-time when he'd seen him, and he'd fought hard against the instinct to cower. In a rustbucket, he was invincible; on the ground, such as it was, and face to face with an alien, all the terror and pain of imprisonment with the Flyers had washed over him. Now, in the corridor outside Kraf's office, he crouched down against the wall and sucked in deep breaths against the lingering panic.
Kraf meant him no harm, he could see that; Lo wasn't stupid, and he wasn't an animal to be tied to his instincts. Kraf spoke directly, asked direct questions, and did not punish honesty. Lo had no need to anticipate games with Kraf. That was something, at least.
***
Ianto was in the hospital for three days before he was deemed fit enough to travel; Dr. Markov told him that if he'd been treated sooner he could have left in the space of a few hours, but they had to be sure he hadn't picked up anything nasty and that he wouldn't reject the nuskin. Ianto poked at the bandages in the mirror sometimes; they were warm, and felt like real skin, but there was no sensation where he touched them. Every day around three o'clock someone came in to peel the skin off his face and put new (nu, hah) skin on it. It was gross, but he had to admit it was effective, and apparently at some point the nuskin would permanently bond to the healing skin underneath, which was what would prevent scarring.
Jack came to visit him every day. Which in some ways, Ianto thought, was worse than the other Jack not visiting at all the week before.
He liked getting out of the hospital for a few minutes, to the place across the street. It sold what was apparently standard coffee for the 51st; too sweet, not hot enough, but the caffeine rush was the same. He liked seeing Jack, too. It was just that they didn't end up having much to talk about. But Jack talked a lot, and Ianto was used to that, so it was all one in the end.
Jack obviously remembered him, but he didn't really remember him. Just a name, a few details, the knowledge that once they'd been lovers, and a vague sense that Ianto had perhaps not been his usual casual fling.
"It's a bit of a blow to the ego, you know," Ianto told him on the day he was discharged. He had the backpack next to him on the bench-seat at the diner, filled now not just with his books and iPod and snacks but most of the clothing from the dresser as well. It packed down neatly. He watched Jack's fingers flitting from coffee cup to sugar spork to saucer. "Though I suppose I should be pleased you remembered me this long."
Jack smiled. "Sorry. I try to keep what I can, but it starts to slip away. Seeing you sometimes triggers things..."
Ianto shrugged. "I knew you'd outlive me."
"Three thousand years isn't a bad record. There are people I knew last year I can't place now," Jack told him with a grin.
Ianto changed the subject, because it made him feel uncomfortable and vaguely sad.
"So...I don't think we can be speaking English," he said. "Not my English anyway."
Jack shook his head. "We're not. Gift of the TARDIS."
Ianto frowned.
"It gets in your head," Jack said. "It flips some little switch, maybe, I don't know much about it. We're speaking Galactic Standard Low. But if someone speaks to you in Galactic Standard High, or any one of another thousand languages, you'd still hear it as English."
"That's...creepy," Ianto said.
"Useful, though," Jack replied. "Try not to think too hard about it."
Jack had said that a lot, while teaching Ianto as much as he could; he seemed to think it was important that he know how to integrate, even though it apparently wouldn't even need to be a secret that he was a time traveler.
They finished their drinks and Jack paid the bill; they stepped out on the street and there he was, Ianto Jones, Chrono-displaced asylum seeker, next of kin Admiral Brian Levy.
"You're not staying, are you?" he asked. "With me, I mean."
Jack shook his head and guided him down the pavement, towards a dark vehicle that was obviously waiting for them near the hospital. "I can't. And I can't take you with me."
"What am I supposed to do, then?" Ianto asked. Jack opened the door and held it for him, then climbed in after him. Ianto realised he was sitting in what could best be described as a hover-sedan.
"I've arranged a job for you," Jack said, passing him a shiny new porterminal. He'd seen them in the hospital, even been allowed to use one to set up an email account and visit "the Wik", a sprawling descendant of Wikipedia. The porterminals looked a little like the demon spawn of an iPhone and a GPS unit, but he had to admit they were useful, and they worked with everything. Apparently platform incompatibility was a thing of the past.
Ianto flicked on the porterminal screen and found that he was looking down at his own face: a photograph taken in the hospital, the doctors had said for records purposes. Next to it was a title, and a little bio.
"A librarian?" he asked Jack, looking up. "You got me a job as a librarian?"
Jack leaned back on the seat of the hover-sedan and smiled. "It'll keep you out of trouble."
"I don't know anything about being a librarian in the future," Ianto protested. He looked back down and his eyes widened. "A military librarian?"
"You spent two years as Torchwood's archivist," Jack said.
"You remember that?" Ianto asked, momentarily distracted.
"I checked the records," Jack confessed.
"You can be such a bastard sometimes -- "
"You'll do fine," Jack interrupted. "It's a small library on Quantico Station. You'll be half an hour's flight from Earth the whole time. You do a year there while you get some rehab for your face, and then we'll get you home again."
"Why can't I stay with you?" Ianto asked. Jack looked -- hesitant, as if he'd been about to make a joke and decided it wasn't the time for it.
"There's still a war on," he said. "I'm going back to the front after I see you settled. And it's not a good idea, anyway. I could reveal too much about your future -- your immediate future on Earth, I mean, when you get to your home time again. I might not even mean to do it."
"So it's me and a load of strangers in a century I know nothing about," Ianto said.
"Well....yes," Jack answered, sighing. "But it won't be hard. Quantico Station is the military academy for the fleet. You'll be with a couple of academics, a few soldiers, and fifteen hundred trainees. They'll respect you. It's safe there," he insisted. "I don't know why I brought you forward. I only know that I had to, because I remembered having done it. So all I can do is try to keep you as safe as possible."
The hover-sedan (seriously, a hover-sedan) pulled to a gentle halt, and Jack beamed at him. "Besides, you're gonna love my spaceship. Come on."
***
The morning after his encounter with Kraf, Lo found a message on Memo Base ordering him to MedBay at 0930. He made breakfast, checked that the backs of his boots were properly polished, studied the handbook for an hour, and then reported as ordered. MedBay gave him bad memories of his first few days after escaping from the Flyers, when he'd been confined to a shipboard MedBay before being transferred to a proper military hospital -- but they were just memories, and he had worse.
"Cadet Lo Boeshane, reporting per orders," he said to the duty nurse. She barely looked up; just tapped something into her porterminal and studied the screen.
"Chaplain Sergeant Burton will see you," she said, and walked away. Lo watched her for a second, wondering if he should follow, then ran to catch up. She continued on around a corner and past a row of doors, rapping smartly on the furthest but one. Lo counted the other doorways while they waited.
"Come in," someone called from inside, and she opened the door, gesturing him through. Lo passed into a small office and glanced around quickly even as he snapped to attention. You never knew how much you'd need to know about a place.
There was a database port in the left wall, a scroll screen on the right showing a slowly rotating planet Earth; straight ahead, a wall of old paper books, mixed in with random knick-knacks. A desk in front of him, too, with a lean man behind it, in the most bizarre uniform Lo had ever seen. It was a brightly-coloured, garishly-patterned shirt, with an open collar and insignia stripes obviously hand-sewn onto the short sleeves.
"At ease," the man said. "Cadet Boeshane, yes?"
"Yessir," Lo said.
"Have a seat, Cadet. You must be the Ghost," the man told him, and Lo frowned. "I'm Chaplain Burton, I'm in charge of mental health services and spiritual counseling here at the Academy."
"I know, sir," Lo said, before he could stop himself.
"You do?" the Chaplain raised an eyebrow.
"Yessir. I found your profile on the system page."
"Let's...ease up on the sir a little," Chaplain Burton said. "Most of the cadets just call me Chaplain."
Lo nodded. "Yes, Chaplain."
Chaplain made a quick wry face and then continued. "I've been monitoring your performance in your placement exams. You've done better than anticipated, I think; you'll be fine in third-year for most of your courses. Composition, Tactics, Comportment -- Kraf had some very interesting observations about you."
"I bet he did, Chaplain," Lo said with a small grin. Chaplain grinned back.
"You're a little iffy in Science but we're going to put you in third year and hope for the best. Smitty thinks you can catch up quickly. Pendleton actually thinks you should be in fourth-year mathematics, but he's basing that on your navigational trig, and there's more to life than navigation. You're extremely sketchy in history, but I think you probably know this."
"I know the history of Boeshane, Chaplain." Lo said. "And military history back to the late 23rd century."
"Earth History, kiddo. Earth history," Chaplain replied. "Learn it, love it."
Lo stifled the urge to complain about the relevance of Earth history, and he thought he'd done a good job, but Chaplain caught it.
"You have an objection to Earth history, Lo?"
"Don't see why I need it, Chaplain. I know the colonisation era, all the relevant military history, and my home planet's history," he pointed out.
"Aren't you interested in where you came from?"
"With all due respect, Chaplain, I came from Boeshane, by way of the 43rd Guerilla Battallion," Lo told him.
He expected a frown or an objection, but instead Chaplain laughed.
"All right then, Cadet, consider it a hoop to jump through before you have to graduate. It won't be the last. I'll send a copy of your course registration to your account. After this semester, you'll be responsible for your own registration; study the course catalog and if you have any questions speak to your academics advisor. Who I see is...hm." He looked down at his porterminal. "Kraf asked specifically to be your advisor. He must have taken a shine to you."
"Likes to tell me my shirt's not tucked right," Lo replied daringly. Chaplain laughed again.
"On to other matters," he said. "Admiral Cullen sent me word that you're coming here from a battle zone, is that right?"
"Yes, Chaplain."
"Did you have any counseling when you were demobbed?" Chaplain asked, with a sort of...careful air.
"No, Chaplain," Lo shook his head.
"Whyever not?"
"Didn't know I should, Chaplain."
"Well, you definitely should," Chaplain replied. "I'd like to see you on a weekly basis, to start, to discuss any lingering effects you have. You'll be here for checkups on your injuries, so we'll just incorporate it as part of your treatment. Sound good to you?"
"Yes, Chaplain."
Chaplain sighed. "Okay. For now, that's all. Did you have any questions?"
Lo considered this. He could ask why he was supposed to be counseled, and what on; or he could ask about the professors, he supposed. But either might be signs of weakness.
"Earlier you said I must be the Ghost," he said. "What ghost?"
Chaplain looked surprised. "You didn't know? It's what the Skins call you. Sergeant has them half-convinced you're not real. They think you're a lucky charm -- you know, if they see you in the hallway they'll do well at drill, or some nonsense like that. Soldiers are very superstitious, I've found."
"Oh," Lo said, uncertainly.
"How does that make you feel?"
Lo frowned. "Should it make me feel something, Chaplain?"
"Well -- pride, annoyance, dismay, arrogance -- surely you feel something, Lo? Five hundred kids think you're something incorporeal, only there for their benefit."
"Doesn't matter," Lo said. "They're nothing to do with me."
Being thought a monster by monsters had been far worse, anyway.
"Lo, tell me what you were just thinking," Chaplain said, and Lo started. "I need you to tell me what you think, so I can help you figure out if it's okay or not."
"They're my thoughts," Lo said, suddenly annoyed. "Why wouldn't they be okay to think?"
Chaplain just looked at him, patient, silent, like the Flyers used to.
"I've had worse, Chaplain," Lo said, finally.
"Like what?"
"In the war, the Flyers thought I was a monster. They thought my family was target practice," Lo said, because that was at least partway to the truth of what he'd been thinking. "I don't mind being a ghost to a bunch of people who can't hurt me, Chaplain."
Another long, measuring look. Lo fought the urge to squirm.
"We'll talk about this more next week," Chaplain said. "Until then, focus on your upcoming classes, all right? Check your schedule, download any course materials, learn your way around the station."
"Yes, Chaplain," Lo said. For practice, he mentally called up the map of the section they were in and mapped out three different escape routes to the shuttle bay should the Flyers hit the station.
"You're dismissed," Chaplain told him, with what he recognised as kindness, though he wasn't sure why.
Lo walked out into the hall, down to the front station. He checked in with the nurse to be sure nothing further was required, then left MedBay entirely and went to his room. He took his boots off, sat down on the bed, and called up his new courses.
Ten minutes later, while he was reading the notes for his first Composition lecture, the text began to blur; it took him a second to realise he was crying, and he didn't know why. He drew his knees up to his chest, set the porterminal aside, and buried his face in the comforting, slightly scratchy fabric of his trousers. He'd get snot on them, but they'd wash.
He gave himself precisely two and a half minutes to cry, and then tried wiping the tears away, staring at a seam in the wall of his room to distract him from -- it, from whatever was hurting so badly. Loneliness, he decided, as he shed his uniform shirt and shucked off his trousers, reaching for the neatly-folded pyjama bottoms at the foot of the bed. He hadn't really talked to anyone since arriving, hadn't had sex in ages.
Sex was probably it.
He didn't bother to pull the pyjamas up all the way; just leaned back against the headboard and lifted his hips enough to get his underwear down. He didn't dare picture Mirra, the girl he'd seen bathing on Boe and the star of many imaginative scenarios when he'd been an undersexed rookie with the 43rd; instead he rolled through the soldiers he'd slept with, the doctor on the hospital ship with her gentle hands, the tourists on the transport -- and Admiral Levy, who had sent him here, who had politely declined his brief unspoken offer. Admiral Levy was handsome and seemed like he understood, and he'd had that gorgeous ship, oh such a lovely ship --
Lo knew it was probably messed up to jerk himself off thinking of a ship, even a ship like Amelia, but he hadn't felt so alive in months as when he'd bolted her out of the docking bay, and he couldn't really find it in himself to be upset that he came while handling himself like he'd handle her control yoke.
Exhausted, sniffly, and still sad in a way he couldn't even identify, he cleaned himself up and fell asleep on his bed in the middle of the morning.
***
Quantico Station reminded Ianto of nothing so much as a shopping centre, one of the big malls like they had in London and were building in the Cardiff suburbs. It didn't look like one, physically; it was all steel walls and bright lights, hallways and doors. It just had that same air about it, of a totally enclosed and self-sufficient space, which he supposed it was. He kept expecting one of the doors to open into a Debenhams.
He was still reeling a little bit from the flight -- seeing Earth from space had been staggering, to say nothing of the speed of the ship and its disconcerting habit of talking to him, remarking on his good looks and asking Jack questions about him. He was content to let Jack handle his check-in with a cranky-looking sergeant and then follow Jack through the corridors until they came to a pair of wide glass doors. Inside there was an enormous round desk covered in evenly-spaced lamps, and several walls of books.
"Behold," Jack said, spreading his arms. "Your library."
Ianto looked around. "It's not very futuristic, is it?"
"Au contraire," Jack corrected, and led him to one enormous blank wall covered in some kind of data ports. "Plug your porterminal into any of these and you have access to the entirety of human literary history. There's a pretty good selection of alien works, too. The books are mostly for show."
"So I see," Ianto said, turning to study one of the shelves. It was dusty, which was weird; you didn't think about dust in space stations.
"You can clean it later," Jack told him, taking his hand as he raised it to wipe dust off the spine of a book. He pulled him gently along past the books to a door in the back, which led straight into a sitting room, with a long counter dividing it from a kitchen.
"Home," Jack told him.
"I live in a library," Ianto replied.
"You live next to a library," Jack corrected. "What do you think?"
Ianto had to admit it was nice, nicer than his place in Cardiff. There were windows -- no, scroll screens, that was the term -- set into every wall, showing various views of Earth, the stars, planets that might or might not belong in his solar system. The furniture looked soft and inviting, and the tables and shelves were made of wood. The kitchen had a few boxy objects he couldn't immediately identify. The walls were soft pastel yellow, unlike the steel walls of the rest of the station.
"It's nice," he said uncertainly. Jack opened his mouth to reply, but there was a buzz from behind them before he could.
"Come in," Jack called. The door opened and a slight, young-looking woman entered.
"Admiral Levy," she said, with a little half-bow. "Sarge notified me that Mr. Jones had arrived."
"He has," Jack replied. "Ianto, this is Steward...?"
"Steward Blithe, sir," she said.
"Steward Blithe. She's a sort of support-staff for the instructors. Blithe, this is Ianto Jones."
"Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Jones," she said. "I thought I'd come by and say hello."
"The Steward can answer any questions you have," Jack told him. "She can get you anything you can't get on the station, look after things if you need help, that kind of thing. She knows everything about the station."
"She's me," Ianto whispered to Jack.
"She's hot," Jack whispered back. Blithe looked unconcerned by their exchange.
"Did you need anything, Mr. Jones?" she asked, when Ianto looked at her again. "I've stocked your coldbox with some food, and I understand as a chrono-displaced resident you may be unfamiliar with some of the equipment in your quarters."
"No, that's -- thank you, I don't...need anything right now," Ianto said. "You're, erm. Dismissed?"
She smiled at him, gave them both another half-bow, and left quickly. Ianto stared at the door, uncertain how to even start to gather his scattered wits.
"The station will send you a schedule and Blithe can get you up to speed, when you're ready," Jack said finally, turning to face him. "This is where I leave you, I'm afraid."
"Jack..." Ianto wanted to say something about how he was just being dumped here, with no preparation and no real knowledge of why, but he couldn't figure out how. He was tired, and his clothes were all wrong, and he'd just been introduced to someone who did a job that really should be his, and there was no Torchwood, and he wasn't in Cardiff, and he missed Gwen and his Jack, the Jack that knew him and didn't have grey in his hair.
"I'm sorry," Jack said softly, as if he could read his mind. "Don't be scared."
"Too late," Ianto answered.
"You'll be fine." Jack ran a hand down his arm, squeezed his fingers, and stepped in close. "I trust you. Trust yourself."
Ianto nodded, looking away from Jack's eyes. Jack touched his cheek, turned him back so that they faced each other, and kissed him.
It was meant to be a kiss goodbye. Ianto was fully aware of that. But he'd been shot and drugged, and then kidnapped by an alien, and taken here to this space station that he didn't know anything about, and the one familiar thing in the world right now was Jack kissing him. It was instinct that made him open his mouth, tilt his head and deepen the kiss.
Jack didn't pull away. Instead he inhaled slightly and closed the gap between them, pulling Ianto's body flush with his, one hand on his face and the other on his hip. Jack still tasted like the too-sweet coffee they'd had at the diner.
Ianto tilted his head back when Jack slid his mouth down to his jaw, along the line of his throat, and now Jack's fingers were on the buckle of the stupid shirt collar everyone wore, undoing it, pulling the snaps apart, working down the buttons on his shirt. Three thousand years in the future and they still had buttons, and Ianto was pulling Jack's shirt out of his weird beltless trousers.
"This, I remember," Jack said against the skin of his shoulder, but Ianto was busy backing him towards a door that hopefully led to the bedroom and not the loo --
Yes, a bedroom, with a large bed and two sleek nightstands and an enormous dark scroll screen, but the bed looked comfortable and the blanket was soft when he fell back onto it, still scrambling to get Jack out of his trousers. They'd left their shoes somewhere near the door.
In the dark of the bedroom he couldn't see the grey at Jack's temples. He could feel his body, though, the smooth skin, the unchanging shape of Jack's chest and hips, a comforting sameness. Jack was still kissing his shoulders and biting gently at his throat, rocking against him as they settled onto the bed. There was something almost endearingly desperate about it, when Ianto knew full well Jack couldn't possibly remember the last time they'd had sex (against Ianto's kitchen counter, the morning he was shot). Jack had probably had tons of it since, especially as this century was supposedly famous for everyone having sex all the time.
Or maybe he just liked that Ianto called him Jack, when everyone else called him Admiral.
He was getting close, he could feel it, and he could tell by Jack's moans (god, Jack really hadn't changed, at least not in this) that he was too. He pulled Jack's face up and kissed him again, and Jack cried out into his mouth and came, and Ianto barely had time to wonder how one did laundry in The Future when he came as well.
There had to be some kind of name for this, like the Mile High club. The Century Ahead club, perhaps.
He let his head fall back while he caught his breath, Jack sprawled on top of him and mumbling incoherently against his chest. After a while that stopped, and Ianto lifted a hand, unseeing, to run it through Jack's hair.
"That wasn't supposed to happen," Jack said, muffled a little where his face was pressed to Ianto's skin.
"Well, I hear this is a very liberated century," Ianto replied. Jack laughed and pulled himself up, resting his elbows on either side of Ianto's arms, looking down at him.
"Thank you," he said, with such sincerity that Ianto's heart broke for him a little. Then Jack rolled away, off the bed, and reached for his shirt. He looked at it, shrugged, and cleaned himself up with it; when Ianto stood, Jack stopped him with a hand on his chest and did the same for him.
"You have to leave," Ianto said, half-questioning.
"Yeah. Galaxies to save, you know how it is," Jack replied, not looking at him as he pulled on his trousers. He tossed the shirt in a little box nearby, which hummed briefly and then beeped and spat it up clean.
"Convenient," Ianto remarked, gesturing at the box.
"Sometimes," Jack agreed, shrugging the shirt on. Ianto found his own clothing and began dressing again. "You'll be fine here."
"Of course." Ianto hesitated, but what the hell did he have to lose at this point? "Will you be back?"
"If I can," Jack answered. He leaned in and kissed him again as Ianto was doing up his shirt. "It's -- "
"Dangerous, yes, we covered that," Ianto drawled.
"I see what I liked about you the first time around," Jack told him. "Collar straight?"
"Impeccable," Ianto answered, and walked him to the door. "Jack..."
"Hm?" Jack turned as the door opened.
"Be safe," Ianto told him. Jack smiled, saluted him, and walked out.
Ianto stood in the sitting room for a little while, at least as confused as before, and finally summed up the entire horrible week in a single word.
"Fuck," he said feelingly.
Chapter Three
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