sam_storyteller (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-17 03:20 pm
sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-17 03:20 pm
Your Face Is Turned, 5a/9
Title: Your Face Is Turned
Part: 5 of 9 (part A)
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.
Note: So, Chapter Five turned out to be too long to post, and yet too short to be a "real" chapter if I split it in half. Therefore I split the chapter into Part A and Part B. Part B to follow; it's linked at the bottom of part A.
CHAPTER FIVE A
Cardiff was not at all what Ianto remembered, but then he didn't really think it would be. The ocean levels hadn't risen, actually, at least according to the Wik, but the climate definitely had changed; it was winter in Cardiff and it felt like a late spring day. For all that this city resembled his, it might as well have been a different one entirely -- none of the streets were the same, and most of the landmarks were gone.
Blithe, he discovered, was a walker; she wanted to walk everywhere and see everything, and he didn't object. He'd spent enough time running in Cardiff.
The castle was long gone, and so were the arcades. The Millennium Centre had been replaced with some kind of museum. When they finally made their way down to where he thought Mermaid Quay might once have been, they were greeted with a long stretch of very tropical-seeming sandy beach, and a hotel right where the Plass had once stood.
Although...there was a flat paved area, for hovercars to pull up to the hotel, and he noticed that one part of it was different to the others -- a darker shade, square and a little sunken.
Good old invisible lift. Still confounding general perception, three thousand years in the future. He had half a mind to go find out if it still worked, but he had no way of operating it and that wasn't why he was here -- he was here to see the city, with a pretty woman on his arm. The sun was out, and it was no longer his job to keep anyone safe. He was a tourist. It was someone else's job to keep him safe.
"You've gone quiet," Blithe said, as they stopped to lean on a guardrail and watch the water lap at the sand below.
"Just remembering something," he said, smiling.
"Good memory, I hope?"
"Of a sort. When I lived here, my life was...difficult."
"And it's not now?" she asked, patting his arm.
"Not in the same way. It's just...nice to be outside, nice not to have to listen with one ear for trouble. I loved -- I loved the feeling of being useful. Doing something important. But it was always all or nothing. It's good to have a little nothing, for a little while."
They stood there in silence until Blithe turned around and elbowed him gently. "Come on. I have a big fancy dinner booked on the water, and afterward I hear there are beach fires. Sounds romantic, doesn't it?"
He smiled. "It does. Lead the way."
It was romantic, and above and beyond that it was so easy. Jack had never been the easiest man to try and have anything approaching a relationship with, but even when Ianto had been -- normal, when he'd just been some boy filing papers in London, there was always an edge to this dance. Making sure a girl liked you, getting her to go out with you, wondering if you'd have sex...going on the pull, it was hard and sometimes it didn't feel worth it. But it didn't matter if Blithe liked him, really, though she did; didn't matter who paid for dinner, didn't matter because sex was easy here, sex was something people liked to do and didn't seem to find shameful or difficult. He was going to have a nice dinner, see the bonfires on the beach, and then go back to a hotel room he'd booked with a view of the city and have sex with a beautiful woman, and maybe stop thinking for a while.
"How did you know about this?" he asked, sitting down next to her on a dune on a beach to the southwest of what had once been Mermaid Quay. "You said you didn't know Cardiff."
"I looked it up," she replied. She wrapped her arms around her knees and leaned against him a little. Down below, there were at least four fires burning, and food was cooking on them -- Boeshane's idea of haute cuisine, no doubt. "I love learning about things like this. Secret pleasures of a place."
"Poetic," he said.
"Keeps me from stiffening up like people do who work with the Fleet," she told him. "Quantico's just training ground for me, you know. I'm working on my certs to become a civilian quartermaster, and then it's off to see the stars I go."
"Nice plan. See the world on the Fleet's dime, without all the saluting."
Blithe flicked sand off her bare toes, smiling. "That's the idea. What about you? You've got friends in high places and you're a smart man. Why would you want to come back to Earth? You could see the universe, I bet."
He laughed to himself as he realised what his answer was. "I'm waiting for a doctor."
"A doctor? For your face?"
Ianto rubbed the numb nuskin on his cheek. Sometimes he forgot it was there. "No, he's...not that kind of doctor. It's difficult to explain."
"No difficult tonight," she said. "I don't need to know. Just curious."
Down below, on the beach, there was some kind of music playing. People were dancing -- boys with boys, girls with girls, boys with girls. It still startled him sometimes to see the freedom they had, here; it wasn't something he'd often seen back home. They switched off so fluidly, too. It didn't even seem to matter who they danced with, so long as they danced.
Dancing cheek to cheek and pants to pants -- that was one of Jack's old showtunes, wasn't it? Gee, I wish I was back in the army; the army was the place to find romance...
As if she'd read his mind, Blithe stood up and held out her hand. "Come on, librarian," she said, pulling him upright. "Play me some other song Boeshane would probably hate, and let's dance."
Ianto took the porterminal she offered him and scrolled through. Well, as long as he was embracing his mortifying knowledge of pop music...
Much as with the people nearer the bonfires, it wasn't dancing so much as an excuse to stand close to someone; and perhaps Champagne Supernova wasn't the most romantic song in the universe, but Blithe didn't know that.
"What's this one about?" she asked, allowing him to shuffle her around the sand.
"I'm not actually sure," he admitted. "I'm not certain it means anything."
"Still catchy," she said, as it ended. "Come on, one more."
Well, what the hell.
"This," he told her, very seriously, "has no lyrics at all. It's by a man named Miller, and my boyfriend used to play it. Incessantly, at times."
Blithe smiled and swung him around a little as the music began. "It's wonderful. What's this one called?"
Ianto kissed her before he answered, their feet kicking up sand as they danced. "In the Mood."
***
Lo hadn't actually meant to be stalking Mr. Jones and Steward. Apparently they, like everyone else, just knew that this was the place to be.
There was a lot to recommend the beach; the requisite fire-roasted seafood had been consumed, some kind of local homebrew had been drunk, and the last time he'd seen Myles she was wandering off with a young Cardiff man, presumably to have fun in a dune somewhere. He preferred not to pick a partner so early in the evening, and he might well go back to the base alone -- but he was very much enjoying the dancing. From where he stood, lower on the beach, it looked like Mr. Jones and Steward were enjoying it too.
They weren't keeping time with the music, though, at least not the music he could hear, and they probably couldn't hear it up there. He hoped Mr. Jones wasn't inflicting more of the stuff they'd heard in the shuttle earlier on her.
He sidled closer, keeping cover behind a dune. Now he could hear it, just faintly, and in another few steps it came clearer over the receding noise of the dancers on the beach. Not at all the music from earlier. Something simple, yes, but with an odd rhythm, impossible to keep out of his head.
Beautiful music, that was what it was, nothing synthetic about it, rising and falling -- wonderful music. Nothing he'd ever heard before.
He got lost in it for just a minute -- it wasn't a long song -- but he tried to remember as much of it as he could, so he could find a way to ask about it later. When it was over, Mr. Jones and Steward were already leaving, and a woman from the beach found Lo and reeled him back into the dancing near the fire, but the few bars he'd caught in his head stayed with him. That and the image of firelit shadows far up above the beach, moving in time to it, hips swaying, bodies turning around and around.
"Lo, where've you been?" Myles asked, looking decidedly mussed and well-satisfied with herself. "There are half a dozen boys looking for you, and about twice as many girls."
"I like to be mysterious," he answered absently. "Did you see Mr. Jones up on the ridge there?"
"No, is he here? With Steward?" Myles asked, scanning the distance.
"They left. They were -- " he was about to blurt out about the amazing music, but then he stopped himself. It sounded a little insane even to him, and he'd had just enough of whatever they were passing around in jugs to be affected. "They were dancing," he finished.
"Nice," Myles said, even as she was being tugged away by someone to start a new dance. "Have fun, Boeshane!"
"You should do what she says," a boy said to him, leaning on his shoulder. "Boeshane, huh? You're far from home."
"Pretty far," Lo agreed. "I've never been on Earth before."
"Well, space-boy, you want to dance?"
***
The next morning, Ianto woke late and slowly, enjoying the luxury of not having anywhere to be or anything to do until the afternoon. He felt as if one last knot of tension somewhere in his gut had eased, and he could finally stop listening for the whirr of the TARDIS, or the sound of a siren or a mobile with Jack summoning him to a crime scene in the middle of the night.
Blithe was sprawled on her stomach next to him, naked, having thrown off most of the covers sometime in the night. She was beautiful -- and inventive. And easy-spoken in the same way Jack had been, the shameless way she asked for what she wanted and told him what she liked. Which was a relief in itself, because she was the first woman for him since Lisa, and...well, he had been a little worried that he'd have forgotten what it was like, or been bad at it through lack of practice.
No fear. He was satisfied, and he knew she was. She had told him so. Loudly.
He smoothed a hand down her body, from her shoulder to her back, along her hip, dragging his thumb a little over the curve of her arse. She wriggled, turned to face him, and smiled sleepily.
"What time is it?" she asked.
"Dunno," Ianto said. "Don't care."
"Mm. Good." She inched closer, sprawling on his chest and nuzzling under his jaw. "Sleep well?"
"Very." He drew one leg up, nudging her body slightly until she rested flush against him, hips pressed to his stomach. "You?"
She yawned, then laughed. "All evidence to the contrary, yes."
"You could sleep some more -- "
"Sleep's not what I'm interested in," she answered, rocking backwards just enough to brush against his erection. "Unless you'd prefer to take care of that on your own."
"Be my guest," he said, and she swatted his chest.
"You were nervous last night," she remarked, still moving gently, maddeningly against him. "Twenty-first century jitters?"
"It'd been a while, that's all," he told her, sliding his hands up from her hips to her breasts. "You're an understanding woman."
"Pleasure should be easy," Blithe said, rising up on her knees and leaning back. "It should be -- oh -- " she interrupted herself as he pushed his hips up, sliding into her. "Should be something you look forward to. Not something to be afraid of."
"You've convinced me," he said, letting her move slowly, trying to lie still. She seemed to be enjoying herself, one hand flattened over her stomach, the other propped on his chest. She made a soft, pleased sort of humming sound every time she rose up, hips canted a little so that his cock dragged across her clit. Ianto arched his head back and closed his eyes.
"Good?" she asked, still moving slowly, apparently in no hurry. He was; his skin felt hot, and hers was smooth and cool. He grabbed her waist and rolled them, suddenly, and she laughed.
"Better," he said, pressing her down on the sheets. She wrapped her thighs around his hips, rocking lazily, but when he sped up the rhythm she did too, telling him how much she liked that, demanding a kiss or a bite or to look him in the eyes when she -- oh -- tightened around him and moaned, coming.
"Don't stop," she panted, fingernails raking his back, so he didn't until she slid one hand down to his arse and held him still and quivering on the edge.
"Now come," she whispered, bucking her hips. He moaned his orgasm into her neck, almost ashamed at the sheer luxury of it. "That's it. Beautiful boy."
He breathed deeply, trying for coherence for a minute or two before he managed it.
"Beautiful girl," he answered.
"Yes, I know," she said, laughing. "You were made for our time, Ianto, you know that -- don't you? I didn't think you'd enjoy this as much as you did."
"We did like sex in the twenty-first century," he said, sliding off her and back into the glorious mess of blankets. "We just had some...cultural issues about it."
"You seem to have adapted nicely."
"My boyfriend -- " got me used to fifty-first century thinking he was about to say, but that would lead to questions, and he did still have a certain duty to Torchwood, " -- was good practice."
"Exhibitionist?"
"Only in the sense that he wanted everyone to be looking at him constantly," he said.
"Was he pretty?"
"Gorgeous," Ianto said absently, realising that he was thinking of Jack in the past tense, as if he weren't at this moment running around some other star system somewhere.
Perhaps he ought to stay here. Just simply...refuse the trip home. He had a good job, and this century suited him. He wasn't saving the world, but he'd never actually asked for that job. The only people waiting for him, really waiting for him, were Gwen and Jack -- and Jack was inured to losing lovers, and Gwen had Rhys and Torchwood.
"Breakfast," Blithe decided, sliding out of bed. He admired the sway of her hips as she walked to the porterminal docked in the wall and keyed in an order. "Anything in particular?"
"Whatever you're having," he replied. She tapped the screen a few more times, then disappeared into the bathroom to wash. He decided to give her five minutes and then join her.
A man could get used to the fifty-first century.
***
Lo was hung over and sore when he met Myles and their passengers on the landing pad the following day, but it was the best kind of sore, and he didn't mind the hangover as long as he didn't have to go back to classes before he'd had a long bath and some sleep. Myles looked similarly rough around the edges and cheerful; Steward looked like she'd actually had a full night's sleep.
And Mr. Jones looked...
He looked languid, certainly more relaxed than Lo had ever seen him, content to sit back and watch the stars run past the scroll screen as they made their way back to Quantico. He hardly batted an eye when Lo gave Steward a fairly in-depth description of just how he'd ended up so sore, and when Myles started in on her adventures in the dunes Mr. Jones simply put an arm around Steward's shoulders and listened.
They parted in the shuttle bay: Myles to her quarters, Mr. Jones to the library, Steward to the quartermaster's office to check in. Lo walked with Myles as far as his room, then left her for a long soak and a strategy meeting with himself.
As he sat in the bath, he considered how to broach the topic of the music. He didn't want Mr. Jones to think he'd been spying, and there was something attractive in the idea of a little foolery. In the war he'd been good at tactics, good at getting the other pilots to do what he'd wanted them to do -- good enough that sometimes the officers had asked him for a little hand, and he'd been happy enough to oblige. But making pilots toe the line was different from ingratiating himself with the students here (which he'd been, objectively, pretty shit at) and definitely different from convincing a shy chrono-displaced librarian to share his cultural wealth with him. Maybe he was out of practice. It had been a long imprisonment, and a long recuperation aboard the ship that had brought him here.
When he closed his eyes, sometimes he still heard his dispatch operator over the comm, deathly serene, warning the pilots not to return to the flagship, that the 43rd had taken heavy fire and was a lost cause. Sometimes he still heard the soft, wet noises the Flyers made when they moved.
He forced himself not to think about that. Instead he called up the few short bars of music he'd managed to stick in his half-drunk, sex-addled brain on the beach. It washed out the damp shuffling, the calm measured tones of the dying. Maybe it had been the beach, the fires, the alcohol -- maybe it had been the lovely uncomplicated thing Steward and Mr. Jones had possessed. But maybe it was the music, and he desperately wanted more of it. What if it could fix him?
Na-naaaa (de da de doo dah dee dee doo dah de dah)
Na-naaaa (de da de doo dah dee dee doo dah de dah)
Duh de duh (na naaaa) de duh de doo dah...
He supposed he could do research on his own. Most of the professors made their entertainment lists a matter of public record, so the students could study them if they chose. Mr. Jones, he knew from the brief survey of the 21st that they'd had in History, would be much more likely to guard his privacy, coming from a time when personal privacy was highly valued, when even nudity was considered shocking rather than just a mild inconvenience if the weather was cold.
He reached for his porterminal, dripping soapy water on the floor, and tapped into the profile base. As suspected -- nothing from Mr. Jones except the usual library study announcements. No joy there, then. Although...
If he did a little research on his own, just enough to convince Mr. Jones of a burgeoning interest in his time period, maybe that was his way in. Who knew, he might find what he was looking for on his own. Mr. Jones came from the early twenty-first, bleeding into the twentieth. Not the most well-recorded period in history, but he'd found the car all right.
He backtracked in his history to the Wik entry about the cars, found "James Bond" like Mr. Jones had mentioned, and to his surprise discovered not only a film but a playlist of some kind associated with it.
Soundtrack: A marketing device popular in the twentieth through twenty-ninth centuries. The incidental or popular music associated with a "film" would be collected and stored, initially on a portable monotask storage device, for purchase. These discs could be listened to with the use of a primitive playback mechanism. Ancestors of the modern playlist, the storage devices were usually round and flat, either black or silver, and often imprinted with a list of the files stored on them. See also: Analog Music Box, Vinyl Preservation Institute, Phonograph, Britney Spears, iTouch, Data Piracy (Historical).
The music, when he played it, wasn't quite right. Some of it was nice enough, but nothing that sounded like he'd heard on the beach.
He got lost in the Wik for about two hours, first in the bath and then in bed after drying himself off. By the end he'd gathered enough bookmarks and little scraps of information that he felt he could probably go to Mr. Jones with it -- but he'd wait a day or two.
Comforted with his plan of action, Lo curled up with his porterminal clutched to his chest, playing the Soundtrack with its not-quite-right music, until he fell asleep.
***
The best thing about the fifty-first century, Ianto decided, was that nobody was awkward about this kind of thing.
"So, still feeling refreshed after shore leave?" Blithe asked, over their customary morning cup of coffee -- the too-sweet not-warm-enough stuff, now that his supplies were depeleted.
"Yes -- Boeshane was right, it was nice to see the old place again," Ianto said. She smiled easily.
"I can imagine. You're settling in pretty well. Sometimes they don't," she added. "Chrono-displacements, I mean. I think it's a little cruel of the Time Agency not to take them back, but I guess Central knows best."
"Central?"
"The Centre," Blithe said. "The most mega-super computer ever built. It can track timelines. Generally a refugee application is submitted and the Centre decides whether or not they can go home."
"Huh. Didn't happen to me."
"Maybe your friend the Admiral took care of it? Anyway, usually it turns them down. Time Travel is only to be used for repairing rifts and discrepancies identified by the Centre," she recited, as if she'd read it in a pamphlet somewhere. "We're lucky to have them, though."
"Does time go sideways that often, then?"
"They say it didn't used to. Something happened -- it's all math theory, mind you, but apparently they've calculated that there was some incident that affected the way time functions. Sort of like calculating how long ago stars died when you actually see them die in the readouts -- the speed of light. It's pretty complicated, but they call it the Fracture. That's what the Time Agency does, fixes what the Fracture messed up."
"You know a lot about it," he observed, then realised this was probably, for her, like him explaining the Big Bang to an Arthurian knight.
"It's not hard to find if you know what to look for. Anyway, it's moot, since it's just a theory and nobody knows what caused it," Blithe continued. Ianto thought about the files he'd seen in Torchwood, in his time, and one Jack hadn't meant him to see: a personal file about the Time Lords and the Daleks and their -- well, their little war.
"Probably true though," he remarked, and changed the subject to other things. It was that easy -- Blithe didn't need to know where they stood, or bring up the sex again, and he didn't feel like an arse for treating her the way he always had, as a friend.
He might have expected snickerings from Boeshane and Myles, too, in another time and place, but when Myles came in to study she just gave him a wave and sat in her usual spot, and Boeshane didn't even show up at all for a day or two, which wasn't unusual. When he did, he came up to the desk at ten minutes to closing and announced he was Doing Research.
"On what?" Ianto asked, leaning on his desk. Boeshane was the last into the library, and even as they spoke a pair of Skins were the last to leave, giving him and Boeshane the whole place to themselves.
"Your time," Boeshane said excitedly. "I found a soundrail for your James Bond thing."
Ianto frowned. "A what?"
"A playlist? Did I get it wrong?"
"Soundtrack."
"That. Anyway, I thought it might be a good final project for History. Sounds of the Twenty First Century."
Ianto raised an eyebrow. "I thought your classes were mostly in military history."
"I can't branch out?" Boeshane asked.
"At five minutes to closing?"
"Aw, come on, Mr. Jones," Boeshane moaned. He had an angle, Ianto could see that much, but he wasn't sure what it was -- and if it was a seduction it was at least a little more subtle than Haverson's, and the desk was between them.
"Fine. What do you need?"
Boeshane beamed. "Music. So, I found this stuff, but it's not what I'm looking for."
"What are you looking for?" Ianto asked, as Goldfinger blared out of the porterminal's speakers.
"Something jumpier!" Boeshane said. "You know, more like...badaah! Dahh! Dah-baah!" he said, clapping his hands together and then spreading them wide. Ianto decided that they couldn't possibly have Jazz Hands in the fifty-first century, but the resemblance was uncanny.
"I can see why you need help," Ianto said drily. "Something with more 'bah-dah'."
"Yeah!"
"Well, there's disco," Ianto suggested dubiously, then dismissed it before Boeshane could ask him to play Saturday Night Fever. "Or -- try this?" he suggested, and pulled up Madonna. Boeshane wrinkled his nose. Ianto tried grunge, about four seconds of rap, Wonderwall, and Robbie Williams before he decided maybe tracking backwards would be more...uh, 'bah-dah'.
"That's almost it," Boeshane said, when he put on Frank Sinatra.
Ianto hesitated, then finally scrolled into his personal playlists and found one he hadn't listened to in weeks, because he still felt creepy listening to Jack's music in the dark after work.
"There, that!" Boeshane said excitedly. "What's that one?"
"Benny Goodman," Ianto told him. "It's called Sing, Sing, Sing."
"Why?" Boeshane asked. He looked fascinated.
"I...have no clue," Ianto confessed.
"It's great!" He looked for a second like he was having a fit, until Ianto realised he was trying to dance. He paused the song and skipped to another.
"Fats Waller," he said, before Boeshane could ask. "Ain't Misbehavin."
Boeshane looked like he was going to have a paroxysm of joy. "How do they make that sound?"
Ianto sighed. "It's called a piano."
"It's dancing music, right?"
"Yes -- you're doing it wrong," Ianto laughed, as Boeshane tried to figure out how to move to it. "No, look, like this."
He came under the flip-trap of the desk and took one of Boeshane's hands, putting the other one on his hip. Boeshane snickered, but rested his free hand on Ianto's shoulder.
"My boyfriend taught me this," Ianto said, walking him slowly through the steps. It wasn't really anything formal, just the random swing steps Jack had insisted on teaching him one night when he was in a funny mood. Boeshane caught on quickly, then let go and moved off into his own little strange two-step.
"What do the words mean?" he asked, still dancing. Ianto leaned back and smiled.
"He doesn't go out late or see other women -- other people -- because he's waiting for his love," he said, watching Boeshane dance. "Being with other people doesn't matter to him, because he's in love with one person."
"Oh," Boeshane said. His face fell a little. "That's terribly sad."
"No, it's -- a sign of devotion, was at the time anyway. It's supposed to be funny. The way he says it, you get the sense he might not be telling the whole truth," Ianto said. "It's sort of about...not asking too much about what someone gets up to when you're not around."
"Why would you care?" Boeshane asked, stopping for breath.
"Some of us did. Your friend Debra, her girlfriend did, didn't she?"
"Point," Boeshane agreed. "What about you?"
"Me as well, once. I learned not to. I know not to, now."
"Not pining for Steward, are you?" Boeshane asked. The playlist skipped to the next song, and Ianto knew better than to answer. The boy looked positively struck dumb.
After one whole quart of brandy,
Like a daisy I'm awake;
With no bromo-seltzer handy
I don't even shake.
"This is Ella," Ianto said gently.
"What's Ella?"
Men are not a new sensation;
I've done pretty well, I think.
But this half-pint imitation
Put me on the blink...
"Ella Fitzgerald. She's the one singing. It's a song about how she's in love with a young man and doesn't know what to do about it."
"That...that is sad, right?" Boeshane asked uncertainly. Ianto nodded. "But it's so beautiful."
Ianto smiled. "Finally found some history you like?"
I'm wild again, beguiled again
A simpering, whimpering child again
Bewitched, bothered and bewildered
Am I...
Boeshane nodded. They let the music play in silence -- Ianto pleased, Boeshane incandescent -- until Ella's last notes faded off.
"How do I find this stuff?" Boeshane asked.
"I'll make you a list," Ianto promised. "There might be translations of the lyrics. If not, come back and I'll help. You really like this, hm?" he asked, and Boeshane nodded. "Why?"
"Don't know," the boy said, but there was something in his tone that betrayed him. Ianto caught his eye and held it, curious. "It -- makes the noise go away."
"Noise?"
"Things I hear," Boeshane muttered, looking away. "From the war. It makes them quiet."
"Yes, I can see how that would be," Ianto said. Boeshane's glance was deeply suspicious. "I do get lonely, you know. I miss home."
"I haven't got a home to miss."
"But you still -- want peace," Ianto said. "Somewhere safe. Somewhere that fits. Even if you know you can't have it."
"How do you know that?" Boeshane asked, less suspicious now -- almost eager.
"Sometimes nothing in my life fitted together," Ianto shrugged. "I understand the urge."
"Does it go away?"
"I don't know." Ianto silenced the porterminal and held it out. "I'll send a list to you through MemoBase. I should have closed up fifteen minutes ago."
Boeshane nodded, but when he took the porterminal he trapped Ianto's fingers with his other hand, sliding the little device out of his grasp but still holding onto him. This time there was no surprise; Boeshane telegraphed what he was going to do, but Ianto wasn't sure how to untangle himself gracefully, and given the boy's fragile look, wasn't inclined to try. Boeshane kissed his hand again, dry and quick, looking up to see if Ianto approved before letting go of his palm.
Then he was gone again, through the big glass doors, whistling Ain't Misbehavin' -- he'd picked that up quickly.
Ianto locked the doors with the remote, dimmed down the library lights, and picked up his own porterminal. He keyed it back to Madonna, just to get the sound of Ella's plaintive singing out of his head, and tidied up the study tables before going back to his rooms at the far end of the library. No more jazz tonight. He'd send Boeshane the list in the morning, when the nameless fear of uncertainty wasn't lurking around in the shadows.
***
Lo could tell that Mr. Jones was a bit wary of him after their impromptu concert in the library, but he didn't care. He knew Mr. Jones had some weird policy about sex with students, but either he liked Lo better than Haverson (who wouldn't) or he had decided Lo wasn't going to go any further than kissing his hand (he hadn't). At any rate, Mr. Jones stopped protesting when Lo kept showing up after everyone else had left, and two or three nights a week he'd either play him something new or let Lo blither on about the music.
It was just -- it was so great, it got into him and it kept the noise away and if he fell asleep listening to a bunch of music Mr. Jones had grouped under "Cole Porter" the nightmares weren't so bad. And yeah, okay, one night he'd stumbled over something called Moon River and cried without knowing why for about two hours, but sometimes that happened for no reason at all, and after he'd felt better.
"You're becoming an expert," Mr. Jones observed, when Lo correctly identified Louis Armstrong's trumpet one evening. "I hear your history marks have come up."
"My colony never made anything like this," Lo shrugged. "I guess Earth's okay."
"Well, on behalf of my home planet, thank you," Mr. Jones drawled.
"Anyway I've decided -- can you keep a secret?" Lo asked.
Mr. Jones got that expression, the one he sometimes got that said if he were a certain kind of man he'd have a story to tell. "Yes. I have some practice."
"When I get out of here, I'm going to be a Time Agent," Lo whispered, a thrill running down his spine at telling someone. "It's all arranged. When I am, I'm going to go back to Earth and hear Ella Fitzgerald sing for real."
Mr. Jones looked...well, actually kind of alarmed. "What do you mean?"
"There's a scholarship to the Agency Academy waiting for me. When I get my strap I'm going to -- " Lo cut off abruptly. In his mind, it had been so clear -- find and rescue Gray, run to "the forties" where nobody would find them, and make a home. But not even Mr. Jones could know about Gray. "I'm going to ask to be assigned to Earth."
Mr. Jones studied him. "Someone's watching over you."
Lo nodded. "During the war I did some...some work for someone. He took a personal interest. Not like that," he added, when Mr. Jones delicately arched an eyebrow. "He said I could be famous, or I could be a Time Agent."
"Sounds like you made a wise decision."
"Maybe," Lo shrugged. "It's made now, anyway. And there aren't many people my age who can say they're bound by the Military Confidentiality laws. Bet you might know something about that, though."
"Why do you say that?"
"Well, the way you talk -- you were in a war, weren't you?" Lo asked. Mr. Jones frowned.
"No, I -- not a war," Mr. Jones said. "I...protected people. I helped make sure the future would happen. For people like you," he added. "I never really thought about that before. Makes griping about never getting to go home and do the washing a bit silly, I suppose."
"Admiral Levy brought you here. I just assumed," Lo said.
"He's a friend of a friend."
"The most well-connected librarian in space," Lo teased. "Prettiest too."
"Now you're just messing me about," Mr. Jones said easily. "Run along. Ah!" he added, holding up his hand before Lo could grab it. "Enough of that."
Lo beamed at him and kissed his fingertips instead. "Sorry, Mr. Jones. I can't resist."
Mr. Jones shoved his forehead lightly, pushing him away. "Go, study, work hard. If we're going to trust you with time-travel, you ought to be getting top marks."
Chapter 5B
Part: 5 of 9 (part A)
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.
Note: So, Chapter Five turned out to be too long to post, and yet too short to be a "real" chapter if I split it in half. Therefore I split the chapter into Part A and Part B. Part B to follow; it's linked at the bottom of part A.
CHAPTER FIVE A
Cardiff was not at all what Ianto remembered, but then he didn't really think it would be. The ocean levels hadn't risen, actually, at least according to the Wik, but the climate definitely had changed; it was winter in Cardiff and it felt like a late spring day. For all that this city resembled his, it might as well have been a different one entirely -- none of the streets were the same, and most of the landmarks were gone.
Blithe, he discovered, was a walker; she wanted to walk everywhere and see everything, and he didn't object. He'd spent enough time running in Cardiff.
The castle was long gone, and so were the arcades. The Millennium Centre had been replaced with some kind of museum. When they finally made their way down to where he thought Mermaid Quay might once have been, they were greeted with a long stretch of very tropical-seeming sandy beach, and a hotel right where the Plass had once stood.
Although...there was a flat paved area, for hovercars to pull up to the hotel, and he noticed that one part of it was different to the others -- a darker shade, square and a little sunken.
Good old invisible lift. Still confounding general perception, three thousand years in the future. He had half a mind to go find out if it still worked, but he had no way of operating it and that wasn't why he was here -- he was here to see the city, with a pretty woman on his arm. The sun was out, and it was no longer his job to keep anyone safe. He was a tourist. It was someone else's job to keep him safe.
"You've gone quiet," Blithe said, as they stopped to lean on a guardrail and watch the water lap at the sand below.
"Just remembering something," he said, smiling.
"Good memory, I hope?"
"Of a sort. When I lived here, my life was...difficult."
"And it's not now?" she asked, patting his arm.
"Not in the same way. It's just...nice to be outside, nice not to have to listen with one ear for trouble. I loved -- I loved the feeling of being useful. Doing something important. But it was always all or nothing. It's good to have a little nothing, for a little while."
They stood there in silence until Blithe turned around and elbowed him gently. "Come on. I have a big fancy dinner booked on the water, and afterward I hear there are beach fires. Sounds romantic, doesn't it?"
He smiled. "It does. Lead the way."
It was romantic, and above and beyond that it was so easy. Jack had never been the easiest man to try and have anything approaching a relationship with, but even when Ianto had been -- normal, when he'd just been some boy filing papers in London, there was always an edge to this dance. Making sure a girl liked you, getting her to go out with you, wondering if you'd have sex...going on the pull, it was hard and sometimes it didn't feel worth it. But it didn't matter if Blithe liked him, really, though she did; didn't matter who paid for dinner, didn't matter because sex was easy here, sex was something people liked to do and didn't seem to find shameful or difficult. He was going to have a nice dinner, see the bonfires on the beach, and then go back to a hotel room he'd booked with a view of the city and have sex with a beautiful woman, and maybe stop thinking for a while.
"How did you know about this?" he asked, sitting down next to her on a dune on a beach to the southwest of what had once been Mermaid Quay. "You said you didn't know Cardiff."
"I looked it up," she replied. She wrapped her arms around her knees and leaned against him a little. Down below, there were at least four fires burning, and food was cooking on them -- Boeshane's idea of haute cuisine, no doubt. "I love learning about things like this. Secret pleasures of a place."
"Poetic," he said.
"Keeps me from stiffening up like people do who work with the Fleet," she told him. "Quantico's just training ground for me, you know. I'm working on my certs to become a civilian quartermaster, and then it's off to see the stars I go."
"Nice plan. See the world on the Fleet's dime, without all the saluting."
Blithe flicked sand off her bare toes, smiling. "That's the idea. What about you? You've got friends in high places and you're a smart man. Why would you want to come back to Earth? You could see the universe, I bet."
He laughed to himself as he realised what his answer was. "I'm waiting for a doctor."
"A doctor? For your face?"
Ianto rubbed the numb nuskin on his cheek. Sometimes he forgot it was there. "No, he's...not that kind of doctor. It's difficult to explain."
"No difficult tonight," she said. "I don't need to know. Just curious."
Down below, on the beach, there was some kind of music playing. People were dancing -- boys with boys, girls with girls, boys with girls. It still startled him sometimes to see the freedom they had, here; it wasn't something he'd often seen back home. They switched off so fluidly, too. It didn't even seem to matter who they danced with, so long as they danced.
Dancing cheek to cheek and pants to pants -- that was one of Jack's old showtunes, wasn't it? Gee, I wish I was back in the army; the army was the place to find romance...
As if she'd read his mind, Blithe stood up and held out her hand. "Come on, librarian," she said, pulling him upright. "Play me some other song Boeshane would probably hate, and let's dance."
Ianto took the porterminal she offered him and scrolled through. Well, as long as he was embracing his mortifying knowledge of pop music...
Much as with the people nearer the bonfires, it wasn't dancing so much as an excuse to stand close to someone; and perhaps Champagne Supernova wasn't the most romantic song in the universe, but Blithe didn't know that.
"What's this one about?" she asked, allowing him to shuffle her around the sand.
"I'm not actually sure," he admitted. "I'm not certain it means anything."
"Still catchy," she said, as it ended. "Come on, one more."
Well, what the hell.
"This," he told her, very seriously, "has no lyrics at all. It's by a man named Miller, and my boyfriend used to play it. Incessantly, at times."
Blithe smiled and swung him around a little as the music began. "It's wonderful. What's this one called?"
Ianto kissed her before he answered, their feet kicking up sand as they danced. "In the Mood."
***
Lo hadn't actually meant to be stalking Mr. Jones and Steward. Apparently they, like everyone else, just knew that this was the place to be.
There was a lot to recommend the beach; the requisite fire-roasted seafood had been consumed, some kind of local homebrew had been drunk, and the last time he'd seen Myles she was wandering off with a young Cardiff man, presumably to have fun in a dune somewhere. He preferred not to pick a partner so early in the evening, and he might well go back to the base alone -- but he was very much enjoying the dancing. From where he stood, lower on the beach, it looked like Mr. Jones and Steward were enjoying it too.
They weren't keeping time with the music, though, at least not the music he could hear, and they probably couldn't hear it up there. He hoped Mr. Jones wasn't inflicting more of the stuff they'd heard in the shuttle earlier on her.
He sidled closer, keeping cover behind a dune. Now he could hear it, just faintly, and in another few steps it came clearer over the receding noise of the dancers on the beach. Not at all the music from earlier. Something simple, yes, but with an odd rhythm, impossible to keep out of his head.
Beautiful music, that was what it was, nothing synthetic about it, rising and falling -- wonderful music. Nothing he'd ever heard before.
He got lost in it for just a minute -- it wasn't a long song -- but he tried to remember as much of it as he could, so he could find a way to ask about it later. When it was over, Mr. Jones and Steward were already leaving, and a woman from the beach found Lo and reeled him back into the dancing near the fire, but the few bars he'd caught in his head stayed with him. That and the image of firelit shadows far up above the beach, moving in time to it, hips swaying, bodies turning around and around.
"Lo, where've you been?" Myles asked, looking decidedly mussed and well-satisfied with herself. "There are half a dozen boys looking for you, and about twice as many girls."
"I like to be mysterious," he answered absently. "Did you see Mr. Jones up on the ridge there?"
"No, is he here? With Steward?" Myles asked, scanning the distance.
"They left. They were -- " he was about to blurt out about the amazing music, but then he stopped himself. It sounded a little insane even to him, and he'd had just enough of whatever they were passing around in jugs to be affected. "They were dancing," he finished.
"Nice," Myles said, even as she was being tugged away by someone to start a new dance. "Have fun, Boeshane!"
"You should do what she says," a boy said to him, leaning on his shoulder. "Boeshane, huh? You're far from home."
"Pretty far," Lo agreed. "I've never been on Earth before."
"Well, space-boy, you want to dance?"
***
The next morning, Ianto woke late and slowly, enjoying the luxury of not having anywhere to be or anything to do until the afternoon. He felt as if one last knot of tension somewhere in his gut had eased, and he could finally stop listening for the whirr of the TARDIS, or the sound of a siren or a mobile with Jack summoning him to a crime scene in the middle of the night.
Blithe was sprawled on her stomach next to him, naked, having thrown off most of the covers sometime in the night. She was beautiful -- and inventive. And easy-spoken in the same way Jack had been, the shameless way she asked for what she wanted and told him what she liked. Which was a relief in itself, because she was the first woman for him since Lisa, and...well, he had been a little worried that he'd have forgotten what it was like, or been bad at it through lack of practice.
No fear. He was satisfied, and he knew she was. She had told him so. Loudly.
He smoothed a hand down her body, from her shoulder to her back, along her hip, dragging his thumb a little over the curve of her arse. She wriggled, turned to face him, and smiled sleepily.
"What time is it?" she asked.
"Dunno," Ianto said. "Don't care."
"Mm. Good." She inched closer, sprawling on his chest and nuzzling under his jaw. "Sleep well?"
"Very." He drew one leg up, nudging her body slightly until she rested flush against him, hips pressed to his stomach. "You?"
She yawned, then laughed. "All evidence to the contrary, yes."
"You could sleep some more -- "
"Sleep's not what I'm interested in," she answered, rocking backwards just enough to brush against his erection. "Unless you'd prefer to take care of that on your own."
"Be my guest," he said, and she swatted his chest.
"You were nervous last night," she remarked, still moving gently, maddeningly against him. "Twenty-first century jitters?"
"It'd been a while, that's all," he told her, sliding his hands up from her hips to her breasts. "You're an understanding woman."
"Pleasure should be easy," Blithe said, rising up on her knees and leaning back. "It should be -- oh -- " she interrupted herself as he pushed his hips up, sliding into her. "Should be something you look forward to. Not something to be afraid of."
"You've convinced me," he said, letting her move slowly, trying to lie still. She seemed to be enjoying herself, one hand flattened over her stomach, the other propped on his chest. She made a soft, pleased sort of humming sound every time she rose up, hips canted a little so that his cock dragged across her clit. Ianto arched his head back and closed his eyes.
"Good?" she asked, still moving slowly, apparently in no hurry. He was; his skin felt hot, and hers was smooth and cool. He grabbed her waist and rolled them, suddenly, and she laughed.
"Better," he said, pressing her down on the sheets. She wrapped her thighs around his hips, rocking lazily, but when he sped up the rhythm she did too, telling him how much she liked that, demanding a kiss or a bite or to look him in the eyes when she -- oh -- tightened around him and moaned, coming.
"Don't stop," she panted, fingernails raking his back, so he didn't until she slid one hand down to his arse and held him still and quivering on the edge.
"Now come," she whispered, bucking her hips. He moaned his orgasm into her neck, almost ashamed at the sheer luxury of it. "That's it. Beautiful boy."
He breathed deeply, trying for coherence for a minute or two before he managed it.
"Beautiful girl," he answered.
"Yes, I know," she said, laughing. "You were made for our time, Ianto, you know that -- don't you? I didn't think you'd enjoy this as much as you did."
"We did like sex in the twenty-first century," he said, sliding off her and back into the glorious mess of blankets. "We just had some...cultural issues about it."
"You seem to have adapted nicely."
"My boyfriend -- " got me used to fifty-first century thinking he was about to say, but that would lead to questions, and he did still have a certain duty to Torchwood, " -- was good practice."
"Exhibitionist?"
"Only in the sense that he wanted everyone to be looking at him constantly," he said.
"Was he pretty?"
"Gorgeous," Ianto said absently, realising that he was thinking of Jack in the past tense, as if he weren't at this moment running around some other star system somewhere.
Perhaps he ought to stay here. Just simply...refuse the trip home. He had a good job, and this century suited him. He wasn't saving the world, but he'd never actually asked for that job. The only people waiting for him, really waiting for him, were Gwen and Jack -- and Jack was inured to losing lovers, and Gwen had Rhys and Torchwood.
"Breakfast," Blithe decided, sliding out of bed. He admired the sway of her hips as she walked to the porterminal docked in the wall and keyed in an order. "Anything in particular?"
"Whatever you're having," he replied. She tapped the screen a few more times, then disappeared into the bathroom to wash. He decided to give her five minutes and then join her.
A man could get used to the fifty-first century.
***
Lo was hung over and sore when he met Myles and their passengers on the landing pad the following day, but it was the best kind of sore, and he didn't mind the hangover as long as he didn't have to go back to classes before he'd had a long bath and some sleep. Myles looked similarly rough around the edges and cheerful; Steward looked like she'd actually had a full night's sleep.
And Mr. Jones looked...
He looked languid, certainly more relaxed than Lo had ever seen him, content to sit back and watch the stars run past the scroll screen as they made their way back to Quantico. He hardly batted an eye when Lo gave Steward a fairly in-depth description of just how he'd ended up so sore, and when Myles started in on her adventures in the dunes Mr. Jones simply put an arm around Steward's shoulders and listened.
They parted in the shuttle bay: Myles to her quarters, Mr. Jones to the library, Steward to the quartermaster's office to check in. Lo walked with Myles as far as his room, then left her for a long soak and a strategy meeting with himself.
As he sat in the bath, he considered how to broach the topic of the music. He didn't want Mr. Jones to think he'd been spying, and there was something attractive in the idea of a little foolery. In the war he'd been good at tactics, good at getting the other pilots to do what he'd wanted them to do -- good enough that sometimes the officers had asked him for a little hand, and he'd been happy enough to oblige. But making pilots toe the line was different from ingratiating himself with the students here (which he'd been, objectively, pretty shit at) and definitely different from convincing a shy chrono-displaced librarian to share his cultural wealth with him. Maybe he was out of practice. It had been a long imprisonment, and a long recuperation aboard the ship that had brought him here.
When he closed his eyes, sometimes he still heard his dispatch operator over the comm, deathly serene, warning the pilots not to return to the flagship, that the 43rd had taken heavy fire and was a lost cause. Sometimes he still heard the soft, wet noises the Flyers made when they moved.
He forced himself not to think about that. Instead he called up the few short bars of music he'd managed to stick in his half-drunk, sex-addled brain on the beach. It washed out the damp shuffling, the calm measured tones of the dying. Maybe it had been the beach, the fires, the alcohol -- maybe it had been the lovely uncomplicated thing Steward and Mr. Jones had possessed. But maybe it was the music, and he desperately wanted more of it. What if it could fix him?
Na-naaaa (de da de doo dah dee dee doo dah de dah)
Na-naaaa (de da de doo dah dee dee doo dah de dah)
Duh de duh (na naaaa) de duh de doo dah...
He supposed he could do research on his own. Most of the professors made their entertainment lists a matter of public record, so the students could study them if they chose. Mr. Jones, he knew from the brief survey of the 21st that they'd had in History, would be much more likely to guard his privacy, coming from a time when personal privacy was highly valued, when even nudity was considered shocking rather than just a mild inconvenience if the weather was cold.
He reached for his porterminal, dripping soapy water on the floor, and tapped into the profile base. As suspected -- nothing from Mr. Jones except the usual library study announcements. No joy there, then. Although...
If he did a little research on his own, just enough to convince Mr. Jones of a burgeoning interest in his time period, maybe that was his way in. Who knew, he might find what he was looking for on his own. Mr. Jones came from the early twenty-first, bleeding into the twentieth. Not the most well-recorded period in history, but he'd found the car all right.
He backtracked in his history to the Wik entry about the cars, found "James Bond" like Mr. Jones had mentioned, and to his surprise discovered not only a film but a playlist of some kind associated with it.
Soundtrack: A marketing device popular in the twentieth through twenty-ninth centuries. The incidental or popular music associated with a "film" would be collected and stored, initially on a portable monotask storage device, for purchase. These discs could be listened to with the use of a primitive playback mechanism. Ancestors of the modern playlist, the storage devices were usually round and flat, either black or silver, and often imprinted with a list of the files stored on them. See also: Analog Music Box, Vinyl Preservation Institute, Phonograph, Britney Spears, iTouch, Data Piracy (Historical).
The music, when he played it, wasn't quite right. Some of it was nice enough, but nothing that sounded like he'd heard on the beach.
He got lost in the Wik for about two hours, first in the bath and then in bed after drying himself off. By the end he'd gathered enough bookmarks and little scraps of information that he felt he could probably go to Mr. Jones with it -- but he'd wait a day or two.
Comforted with his plan of action, Lo curled up with his porterminal clutched to his chest, playing the Soundtrack with its not-quite-right music, until he fell asleep.
***
The best thing about the fifty-first century, Ianto decided, was that nobody was awkward about this kind of thing.
"So, still feeling refreshed after shore leave?" Blithe asked, over their customary morning cup of coffee -- the too-sweet not-warm-enough stuff, now that his supplies were depeleted.
"Yes -- Boeshane was right, it was nice to see the old place again," Ianto said. She smiled easily.
"I can imagine. You're settling in pretty well. Sometimes they don't," she added. "Chrono-displacements, I mean. I think it's a little cruel of the Time Agency not to take them back, but I guess Central knows best."
"Central?"
"The Centre," Blithe said. "The most mega-super computer ever built. It can track timelines. Generally a refugee application is submitted and the Centre decides whether or not they can go home."
"Huh. Didn't happen to me."
"Maybe your friend the Admiral took care of it? Anyway, usually it turns them down. Time Travel is only to be used for repairing rifts and discrepancies identified by the Centre," she recited, as if she'd read it in a pamphlet somewhere. "We're lucky to have them, though."
"Does time go sideways that often, then?"
"They say it didn't used to. Something happened -- it's all math theory, mind you, but apparently they've calculated that there was some incident that affected the way time functions. Sort of like calculating how long ago stars died when you actually see them die in the readouts -- the speed of light. It's pretty complicated, but they call it the Fracture. That's what the Time Agency does, fixes what the Fracture messed up."
"You know a lot about it," he observed, then realised this was probably, for her, like him explaining the Big Bang to an Arthurian knight.
"It's not hard to find if you know what to look for. Anyway, it's moot, since it's just a theory and nobody knows what caused it," Blithe continued. Ianto thought about the files he'd seen in Torchwood, in his time, and one Jack hadn't meant him to see: a personal file about the Time Lords and the Daleks and their -- well, their little war.
"Probably true though," he remarked, and changed the subject to other things. It was that easy -- Blithe didn't need to know where they stood, or bring up the sex again, and he didn't feel like an arse for treating her the way he always had, as a friend.
He might have expected snickerings from Boeshane and Myles, too, in another time and place, but when Myles came in to study she just gave him a wave and sat in her usual spot, and Boeshane didn't even show up at all for a day or two, which wasn't unusual. When he did, he came up to the desk at ten minutes to closing and announced he was Doing Research.
"On what?" Ianto asked, leaning on his desk. Boeshane was the last into the library, and even as they spoke a pair of Skins were the last to leave, giving him and Boeshane the whole place to themselves.
"Your time," Boeshane said excitedly. "I found a soundrail for your James Bond thing."
Ianto frowned. "A what?"
"A playlist? Did I get it wrong?"
"Soundtrack."
"That. Anyway, I thought it might be a good final project for History. Sounds of the Twenty First Century."
Ianto raised an eyebrow. "I thought your classes were mostly in military history."
"I can't branch out?" Boeshane asked.
"At five minutes to closing?"
"Aw, come on, Mr. Jones," Boeshane moaned. He had an angle, Ianto could see that much, but he wasn't sure what it was -- and if it was a seduction it was at least a little more subtle than Haverson's, and the desk was between them.
"Fine. What do you need?"
Boeshane beamed. "Music. So, I found this stuff, but it's not what I'm looking for."
"What are you looking for?" Ianto asked, as Goldfinger blared out of the porterminal's speakers.
"Something jumpier!" Boeshane said. "You know, more like...badaah! Dahh! Dah-baah!" he said, clapping his hands together and then spreading them wide. Ianto decided that they couldn't possibly have Jazz Hands in the fifty-first century, but the resemblance was uncanny.
"I can see why you need help," Ianto said drily. "Something with more 'bah-dah'."
"Yeah!"
"Well, there's disco," Ianto suggested dubiously, then dismissed it before Boeshane could ask him to play Saturday Night Fever. "Or -- try this?" he suggested, and pulled up Madonna. Boeshane wrinkled his nose. Ianto tried grunge, about four seconds of rap, Wonderwall, and Robbie Williams before he decided maybe tracking backwards would be more...uh, 'bah-dah'.
"That's almost it," Boeshane said, when he put on Frank Sinatra.
Ianto hesitated, then finally scrolled into his personal playlists and found one he hadn't listened to in weeks, because he still felt creepy listening to Jack's music in the dark after work.
"There, that!" Boeshane said excitedly. "What's that one?"
"Benny Goodman," Ianto told him. "It's called Sing, Sing, Sing."
"Why?" Boeshane asked. He looked fascinated.
"I...have no clue," Ianto confessed.
"It's great!" He looked for a second like he was having a fit, until Ianto realised he was trying to dance. He paused the song and skipped to another.
"Fats Waller," he said, before Boeshane could ask. "Ain't Misbehavin."
Boeshane looked like he was going to have a paroxysm of joy. "How do they make that sound?"
Ianto sighed. "It's called a piano."
"It's dancing music, right?"
"Yes -- you're doing it wrong," Ianto laughed, as Boeshane tried to figure out how to move to it. "No, look, like this."
He came under the flip-trap of the desk and took one of Boeshane's hands, putting the other one on his hip. Boeshane snickered, but rested his free hand on Ianto's shoulder.
"My boyfriend taught me this," Ianto said, walking him slowly through the steps. It wasn't really anything formal, just the random swing steps Jack had insisted on teaching him one night when he was in a funny mood. Boeshane caught on quickly, then let go and moved off into his own little strange two-step.
"What do the words mean?" he asked, still dancing. Ianto leaned back and smiled.
"He doesn't go out late or see other women -- other people -- because he's waiting for his love," he said, watching Boeshane dance. "Being with other people doesn't matter to him, because he's in love with one person."
"Oh," Boeshane said. His face fell a little. "That's terribly sad."
"No, it's -- a sign of devotion, was at the time anyway. It's supposed to be funny. The way he says it, you get the sense he might not be telling the whole truth," Ianto said. "It's sort of about...not asking too much about what someone gets up to when you're not around."
"Why would you care?" Boeshane asked, stopping for breath.
"Some of us did. Your friend Debra, her girlfriend did, didn't she?"
"Point," Boeshane agreed. "What about you?"
"Me as well, once. I learned not to. I know not to, now."
"Not pining for Steward, are you?" Boeshane asked. The playlist skipped to the next song, and Ianto knew better than to answer. The boy looked positively struck dumb.
After one whole quart of brandy,
Like a daisy I'm awake;
With no bromo-seltzer handy
I don't even shake.
"This is Ella," Ianto said gently.
"What's Ella?"
Men are not a new sensation;
I've done pretty well, I think.
But this half-pint imitation
Put me on the blink...
"Ella Fitzgerald. She's the one singing. It's a song about how she's in love with a young man and doesn't know what to do about it."
"That...that is sad, right?" Boeshane asked uncertainly. Ianto nodded. "But it's so beautiful."
Ianto smiled. "Finally found some history you like?"
I'm wild again, beguiled again
A simpering, whimpering child again
Bewitched, bothered and bewildered
Am I...
Boeshane nodded. They let the music play in silence -- Ianto pleased, Boeshane incandescent -- until Ella's last notes faded off.
"How do I find this stuff?" Boeshane asked.
"I'll make you a list," Ianto promised. "There might be translations of the lyrics. If not, come back and I'll help. You really like this, hm?" he asked, and Boeshane nodded. "Why?"
"Don't know," the boy said, but there was something in his tone that betrayed him. Ianto caught his eye and held it, curious. "It -- makes the noise go away."
"Noise?"
"Things I hear," Boeshane muttered, looking away. "From the war. It makes them quiet."
"Yes, I can see how that would be," Ianto said. Boeshane's glance was deeply suspicious. "I do get lonely, you know. I miss home."
"I haven't got a home to miss."
"But you still -- want peace," Ianto said. "Somewhere safe. Somewhere that fits. Even if you know you can't have it."
"How do you know that?" Boeshane asked, less suspicious now -- almost eager.
"Sometimes nothing in my life fitted together," Ianto shrugged. "I understand the urge."
"Does it go away?"
"I don't know." Ianto silenced the porterminal and held it out. "I'll send a list to you through MemoBase. I should have closed up fifteen minutes ago."
Boeshane nodded, but when he took the porterminal he trapped Ianto's fingers with his other hand, sliding the little device out of his grasp but still holding onto him. This time there was no surprise; Boeshane telegraphed what he was going to do, but Ianto wasn't sure how to untangle himself gracefully, and given the boy's fragile look, wasn't inclined to try. Boeshane kissed his hand again, dry and quick, looking up to see if Ianto approved before letting go of his palm.
Then he was gone again, through the big glass doors, whistling Ain't Misbehavin' -- he'd picked that up quickly.
Ianto locked the doors with the remote, dimmed down the library lights, and picked up his own porterminal. He keyed it back to Madonna, just to get the sound of Ella's plaintive singing out of his head, and tidied up the study tables before going back to his rooms at the far end of the library. No more jazz tonight. He'd send Boeshane the list in the morning, when the nameless fear of uncertainty wasn't lurking around in the shadows.
***
Lo could tell that Mr. Jones was a bit wary of him after their impromptu concert in the library, but he didn't care. He knew Mr. Jones had some weird policy about sex with students, but either he liked Lo better than Haverson (who wouldn't) or he had decided Lo wasn't going to go any further than kissing his hand (he hadn't). At any rate, Mr. Jones stopped protesting when Lo kept showing up after everyone else had left, and two or three nights a week he'd either play him something new or let Lo blither on about the music.
It was just -- it was so great, it got into him and it kept the noise away and if he fell asleep listening to a bunch of music Mr. Jones had grouped under "Cole Porter" the nightmares weren't so bad. And yeah, okay, one night he'd stumbled over something called Moon River and cried without knowing why for about two hours, but sometimes that happened for no reason at all, and after he'd felt better.
"You're becoming an expert," Mr. Jones observed, when Lo correctly identified Louis Armstrong's trumpet one evening. "I hear your history marks have come up."
"My colony never made anything like this," Lo shrugged. "I guess Earth's okay."
"Well, on behalf of my home planet, thank you," Mr. Jones drawled.
"Anyway I've decided -- can you keep a secret?" Lo asked.
Mr. Jones got that expression, the one he sometimes got that said if he were a certain kind of man he'd have a story to tell. "Yes. I have some practice."
"When I get out of here, I'm going to be a Time Agent," Lo whispered, a thrill running down his spine at telling someone. "It's all arranged. When I am, I'm going to go back to Earth and hear Ella Fitzgerald sing for real."
Mr. Jones looked...well, actually kind of alarmed. "What do you mean?"
"There's a scholarship to the Agency Academy waiting for me. When I get my strap I'm going to -- " Lo cut off abruptly. In his mind, it had been so clear -- find and rescue Gray, run to "the forties" where nobody would find them, and make a home. But not even Mr. Jones could know about Gray. "I'm going to ask to be assigned to Earth."
Mr. Jones studied him. "Someone's watching over you."
Lo nodded. "During the war I did some...some work for someone. He took a personal interest. Not like that," he added, when Mr. Jones delicately arched an eyebrow. "He said I could be famous, or I could be a Time Agent."
"Sounds like you made a wise decision."
"Maybe," Lo shrugged. "It's made now, anyway. And there aren't many people my age who can say they're bound by the Military Confidentiality laws. Bet you might know something about that, though."
"Why do you say that?"
"Well, the way you talk -- you were in a war, weren't you?" Lo asked. Mr. Jones frowned.
"No, I -- not a war," Mr. Jones said. "I...protected people. I helped make sure the future would happen. For people like you," he added. "I never really thought about that before. Makes griping about never getting to go home and do the washing a bit silly, I suppose."
"Admiral Levy brought you here. I just assumed," Lo said.
"He's a friend of a friend."
"The most well-connected librarian in space," Lo teased. "Prettiest too."
"Now you're just messing me about," Mr. Jones said easily. "Run along. Ah!" he added, holding up his hand before Lo could grab it. "Enough of that."
Lo beamed at him and kissed his fingertips instead. "Sorry, Mr. Jones. I can't resist."
Mr. Jones shoved his forehead lightly, pushing him away. "Go, study, work hard. If we're going to trust you with time-travel, you ought to be getting top marks."
Chapter 5B
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Also, how appropriate that In The Mood should stick in Lo's head - because that's what it does. Period.
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But yeah, I still keep some of the hand-me-down tapes - Tom Waits' Swordfishtrombones is still a favorite.
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Damn I love how your stories interconnect. I love any mention I can get of the Centre.
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And oh, this whole Lo schoolboy crush on Ianto is so wrong. But charming. But so wrong. (And lol, Haverson.)
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I loved writing Lo's crush on Ianto. I think because it reverses the power dynamic a bit; Ianto's the one in authority, and the one with the power, because Lo is attracted to him rather than the reverse; not that I think Jack was completely dominant in their 21st century relationship, but Ianto definitely wasn't driving that car.
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Love the capitalization. It made me giggle. :)
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And the image of two lovers, dancing carefree in the firelight, probably weaved itself into Lo/Jacks mind of what that music stands for. Poor Ianto. Totally did himself in by introducing Lo to it. I wonder if he'll realize he's the cause of Jacks obsession with the music! :D
I can never get over the layers you weave into a story. I have no idea how you keep track of all of them, of all the details and paths and twists (especially if you throw the 4th dimension of time in there), but it's definitely a mark to your skills as a writer that you do. Thank you so much for sharing with us.
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XOXOOX