Relevant Information

By the time lunchtime finally came around, the only staff member Jack had yet to meet was the mysterious Mister Jones. Deciding that maybe the man had missed the memo to check in with him, as Suzie obviously had, Jack locked up his office and ventured to the team room to see if he could be located.

After several wrong turns, and one decidedly frightening encounter with an individual wearing a boiler suit who Jack assumed was a custodian, he finally made it to the large open space that was the team room. The room wasn’t especially big, but it was large enough to allow the five desks to fit in comfortably, as well as a couch against one wall and a small kitchenette on the other. A paper banner stuck to the wall over the couch said ‘Torchwood’ in large black letters; obviously a joke that Jack was not yet privy on. He made a mental note to ask about that later.

Tosh and Adam’s desks were easily identifiable by the photos of obvious relatives gracing their surfaces. Another desk was cluttered in files and paperwork, and judging by the name on the addressee space on one of the visible envelopes, Jack deduced it was Suzie’s. The next desk was completely and totally empty; no sign of life at all, and that left only one. The final desk was completely bare save a computer monitor, a phone, and a container of pens. That then, must belong to Jones.

His curiosity further piqued by the glaring lack of personal effects, as well as Jones’s conspicuous absence from the area, Jack resolved to search him out. Only, he realised, he didn’t know where to start.

He was saved by Tosh, who came into the room from its opposite door, munching on a salad wrap in one hand and reading something in a manila folder with the other.

“Oh. Hey, Jack!” she called out when she spotted him, and set her folder and wrap down on her desk before approaching him. “What’re you doing down here? Come to see our not-so-glamorous little hidey hole?”

Jack laughed.

“I wouldn’t say it was unglamorous. With a coat of paint, why, you would have to fight to keep Cardiff’s party set from infiltrating! Actually, Tosh, I’m looking for a certain Ianto Jones. He’s the only one of you I haven’t met yet. Is he not at work, or something?”

“No, he’s here,” Tosh assured him. “I saw him earlier in fact. I think he was going down to the archives. I could go get him, if you’d like.”

“That’s alright. I can find him.”

“You know where the archives are?”

Jack assured her he did.

“Thanks a lot, Tosh. You’ve been an enormous help.”

He left her with a brilliant smile and her snack wrap, and then proceeded down to the archives. Luckily for Jack they were situated close at hand, and he made the trip in a relatively short time. Standing outside the door, he fumbled to find his key card, and then finally got a grip and swiped it.

The first thing he noticed when he opened the door was the fact that the light was on. Puzzled, but not especially suspicious, Jack entered the room and let the door click shut. The next thing he noticed was a loud and pained string of obviously Welsh syllables. For all Jack knew of Welsh, it could have been a dramatic translation of one of Shakespeare’s tragedies, but it sounded for all intents and purposes much more like swearing.

Now slightly on edge, Jack crept down the nearest aisle, following the beautiful but wretched vowels and occasional thumps until he reached a secluded corner.

Leaning on the shelf about four metres in front of him, holding his own hand tenderly and scowling down at the mess of volumes and papers all over the floor at his feet, was a young man that Jack wouldn’t have estimated at more than twenty-three. He was obviously tall, about Jack’s height, although it was hard to tell since he was bent slightly over, and he was pale, with short, dark brown hair.

“Cach!” the young man muttered, not noticing Jack. He wrung his wrist in the fashion of one who had just slammed his hand in the icebox door.

Jack cleared his throat, feeling that, as the boss of the place, he ought to make his displeasure known.

The young man looked up quickly and blanched at the sight of Jack scowling at him.

“This room is strictly off limits to students,” Jack informed him icily. “I don’t know how you got in here, but you’ve made a right mess of the place so –”

“I’m not a student.” Now the young man switched to speaking Welsh accented English. A subconscious part of Jack’s mind clapped its hands: finally, somebody Welsh at a Welsh University. The main part of his brain concentrated on what the man was saying to him at the moment though, which happened to be: “I’m the Head Archivist. Who the Hell are you?”

Oops. Jack noted the professional, expensive looking suit and tie, as well as the ID badge clipped to his lapel, and realised too late that no University student yet alive dressed like that. This then, must be Jones. Funny, he looked much too young to have all the qualifications his resume boasted. Still, way to make an impression with the staff, Harkness.

Oh, but he was pretty. He was too far away for Jack to discern the colour of his eyes, but they looked light; maybe hazel, light green, or Jack’s personal favourite, blue. His hair was a bit messy, as though it had a bit of natural curl that he had tried to tame. Jack had a personal moment of fantasising about dragging his finger through those curls before he remembered that staring was rude. Introduction time.

“I’m Jack.”

This apparently didn’t register with the man who now knew was Jones, who just deepened his scowl.

“Harkness,” Jack added, wondering if maybe Jones hadn’t been warned at all of his impending arrival. “Jack Harkness. I’m the new Head of Acquisitions.”

“Oh.” Jones’s posture relaxed slightly from his defensive stance, but the distrustful look on his face didn’t fade. “Ianto Jones, Head Archivist as I said before. Nice to meet you, sir.” He stuck out his uninjured hand for Jack to shake. “I apologise for the mess. I went to go grab something and my hand had twinge. I accidentally knocked some things off the shelves surrounding when I dropped it. I’ll just get this lot cleaned up.”

Ianto knelt down and grabbed a portfolio with his injured hand before wincing and dropping it again.

Concerned, Jack dropped down to his level and Ianto looked up at him quickly. Jack had just enough time to register a flash of blue before Ianto looked back down at the ground. He swallowed.

“You alright?” Jack asked, peering down at the other man’s bruised and slightly swollen fingers. Even with the injury, it was obvious that this was the hand of a beautiful man. He had pianist’s fingers, long, slim and pale, and his palm was soft and obviously well cared for. Jack tried very hard not to think about it.

“I’m fine,” Ianto said brusquely, then let out a squeal of pain and indignation as Jack reached down and grabbed his injured hand. Soft and delicate, without necessarily being feminine. Oh God.

“Hey, what’re you doing?!” he exclaimed indignantly.

“Checking.”

“For what?” Ianto tried to snatch his hand back, but Jack grabbed his wrist and held it firmly in place.

“Fracturing. Hey, stop look at me like I’m going to bite you,” Jack protested, feeling some levity was called for, if only to help himself stop thinking about whose hand he was holding. “I’ll only bite if you ask nicely.”

“Careful, sir,” the young man cautioned him, but relaxed and let Jack inspect his hand. “That’s harassment.”

“Umhm,” Jack muttered, not really listened as he turned Ianto’s hand over and poked gingerly at his palm.

“OW!” the swearing started up again, and the Head Archivist shut his eyes tight against the pain.

“Did that hurt?” Jack asked, a little unnecessarily.

“Do you think?” Ianto snapped. “What makes you qualified to check for injuries anyway? Acquisitions doesn’t require a medical degree.”

“I was a fighter pilot,” Jack explained distractedly, turning his hand over again. “I’ve had my share of snapped and bruised fingers. What did you do to them anyway?”

“Shut them in the car door.”

“That must have hurt.”

“They’re better now.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“You’re um…American then?” Ianto asked awkwardly, as though looking for something to fill the semi-uncomfortable silence.

“Half-ish. Born and partially raised in London, grew up mostly in America. My papers say English, so I guess I’d better believe them.”

Ianto was silent again as Jack released his hand and wrist.

“They’re not broken, I think. That’s a miracle,” Jack told him, standing and offering Ianto a hand up. “Still, you ought to get it checked out.”

“I will,” Ianto promised, standing up and dusting some non-existent dust off his waistcoat. “I’ll do it once I get this lot set.”

“No,” Jack told him authoritatively. “You can go now. It’s lunchtime, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Ianto pulled a pocket watch out of his trousers pocket and checked the time.

“I’ve only got a half hour, that’s not enough time to get to the clinic and back. I’ll go after work, I –”

“I’ll give you an extension,” Jack cut in. “You’re going now, like it or not.”

“You can’t –”

“I’m your boss, and I say you can’t come back to work till you have it checked out.” Jack took his arm and pulled him gently down the aisle. “Go now.”

The young man looked as though he wasn’t sure whether to frown or laugh. He settled for a bemused expression that nearly made Jack laugh himself.

Jack pushed him out the door, switched off the light, and shut the archives up behind them.

“I’ll be back at one, latest,” Ianto informed him, and for the first time looked Jack straight in the eye.

Blue with flecks of silvery-grey.

Jack’s heart stuttered, stopped, then decided that beating was more convenient for everyone involved and started back up again.

“I…um, right. Good, fine. One, okay.”

Ianto gave him a curious look, as though wondering if Jack had lost his mind, then turned and wandered down the hallway to the exterior staircase.

Jack watched him go, waited a moment to be sure he wasn’t returning, then sank down against the wall with a groan.

This couldn’t be happening. Not again, or at least not so soon. And CERTAINLY not at work. New continent, new island, new country, new city, new flat, new job, new friends, new desk; a fresh start. A clean slate as it were. He hadn’t even been at work a day and…

Oh no. Ianto Jones was going to be the death of him, he could tell already.