Part One
There were days when Ianto loved his job at Torchwood, and there were days when he did not.
Most days he enjoyed what he did for a living, even if he was bent over with a stitch in his side, mud on his shoes, and blood in his hair from chasing Weevils across the barrage and being tossed into the wall. He knew he was saving the innocent citizens of Cardiff from having their throats ripped out, and, almost as important, he knew the adrenaline rush would result in a spectacular shag once he and Jack got back to the Hub, cleaned up, and sent the others home.
Working in the Archives was fascinating and fulfilling as well, although there were a number of questionable artifacts tossed on the upper shelves that Ianto worried about, and, to his slight shame, put off tagging and cataloging. But he didn't fancy the thought of losing life or limb just because he picked up the wrong end of an innocent alien toy even a five-year-old from the future could operate without breaking a sweat, so he tried not to think about the dusty top shelves much.
And he knew that creating the fictional cover-ups the job sometimes required was one of his greatest strengths. Yes, he made great coffee, and yes, he knew how to give an amazing blowjob, but there were times when Ianto felt he deserved the Man Booker prize for the stories he spun and the tales he told to cover up the truth about trans-dimensional aliens buzzing Welsh sheep farms for wool. He had created Cardiff's very own amphibious Nessie, after all; the newspaper article was framed in the tourist office.
And then there were the bad days. Days where Jack not only died, but Ianto woke up unconscious and bleeding next to him and spent the next three days limping with twenty stitches in his leg. Days where extraterrestrial viruses put the Hub in lockdown and resulted in copious amounts of rainbow colored vomit followed by voracious cravings for Turkish delight. Numerous days where alien technology went wrong and stole one's voice, or one's eyebrows, or even one's ability to reflect light on the electromagnetic spectrum.
Meetings with the overseers at Whitehall. Conference calls with the blowhards at UNIT. Email exchanges with the clueless Cardiff detectives determined to get to the bottom of Torchwood, that flash SUV, and that prat with the coat flapping about. Not to mention the constant stream of caffeine, food, snark, and general support that was required and yet rarely acknowledged, except by his boss, who rode him like a 51st century horse and cried out in a language that would not be spoken for thousands of years when he came.
Most days Ianto loved his job at Torchwood. It gave him meaning, purpose, and a bloody good shag whenever he wanted. Other days, he'd happily walk away, throw himself into the bay, and hitch a ride on the first ship bound for south Australia.
Owen had been working on the singularity scalpel for weeks. After his death, he'd put it down, too pissed off to do anything else but glower at it. As he started to adjust to his strange undead state, he gradually began returning to his old projects. In fact, he worked on them even more, because he couldn't go out to eat, drink, or shag anymore. Ianto thought it was probably the worst sort of hell for a man like Owen Harper.
So Owen was searching for tech that was similar, something he could study to see if he couldn't get the scalpel to work more accurately. He had almost taken off Ianto's head trying to impress Martha, and several items in the Hub had been unintentionally vaporized as a result of his tinkering. As Ianto was caught up with cleaning, filing, and every other damn thing he did around the Hub, he'd agreed to help when Owen had asked. He pulled up some of his favorite alt rock on the computer, and they sorted through the digital records before heading into the stacks to find the actual artifacts.
Ianto was fairly certain they were all broken bits of space junk with the occasional sex toy thrown in. Most were useless for their purposes, and they began to amuse themselves by renaming things as they rejected them, so that the sub-atomic particle cannon became the Blaster Caster and the multiphasic wavelength scanner became the Wave Stave.
The latest one looked like an alien video game controller: handheld with several flat, monochrome buttons, it was labeled 'Possible Xbox controller. Probably from the future. Most likely broken.' in a scribbled handwriting Ianto did not recognize. Owen mimed pointing it at an invisible television screen, Ianto made a snarky comment about their last Space Invaders tournament, and suddenly he found himself flat on his back next to Owen, staring at the ceiling and wondering if a pixilated alien had knocked him out.
He felt sort of tingly, as if he'd been electrocuted. Sitting up slowly, he rubbed at his arms, trying to brush the static electricity from his suit coat. Only he was no longer wearing his suit coat. He was wearing a dinner jacket—a single-breasted Brioni, when he shamelessly checked the label. It was made of fine black wool, one button with peaked lapels. Double vent, straight jetted pockets, and four button cuffs. The spread collar shirt with a Swiss pleated front fit him perfectly, mother of pearl cufflinks accented the double French cuffs, and the butterfly bowtie was currently lying untied around his neck. Black braces held up the darted trousers, and a black cummerbund fit snugly around his waist. New patent leathers, a posh wristwatch, and a white pocket handkerchief finished the ensemble. He even felt a shoulder holster he hadn't been wearing before; reaching into it, he pulled out a Walther PPK, definitely not standard Torchwood issue.
He felt remarkably like…but no, it couldn't be…
"Jones!" shouted Owen, slowly standing on shaky legs. He had lost the scruffy jeans he'd come in with; instead he was wearing dark trousers with a bold red stripe down the side. A wide utility belt sat around his waist with some sort of weapon slung from it and another smaller pistol strapped to his thigh. A grungy white shirt showed half his chest, dark boots covered half his legs, and a black vest with too many pockets to be fashionable topped it all off. Ianto swore he looked just like…but no…
"What the hell?" said Owen. "I get space pirate and you get sophisticated spy? How is that fair?"
"Depends," said Ianto, standing and circling around Owen.
"On what?" demanded Owen.
"On what the hell just happened," said Ianto. He couldn't help it; he grinned broadly. "You look like you stepped right out of a movie."
"And you look like you tripped and fell out of a casino," Owen snapped. "Any idea why?"
"Wild guess?" asked Ianto, motioning at the video game controller Owen was still holding that was almost certainly not a video game controller. "Probably something to do with that."
"I didn't touch it!" Owen groused.
"You are holding it," Ianto pointed out. "You may be dead, but usually holding something in one's hand requires touching it in some manner."
"I didn't press any buttons," Owen replied defensively. Ianto shrugged.
"Because alien tech always makes sense around here?" he asked. Owen nodded in agreement. "All in a day's work and all that. Let's go see Tosh. She'll figure it out."
"No way," said Owen. "I am not going up there dressed like a cosplay reject from a B-level sci-fi convention."
Ianto raised an eyebrow. "It's much better than most cosplay, Owen. It's a perfect replication. You look just like—"
"Don't say it," Owen said, wagging a finger at Ianto. "Besides, how would you know?"
"Child of the eighties," Ianto shrugged and started for the main part of the Hub. He absently tied the bowtie as he walked. "Tell me you never had a lightsaber as a kid."
Owen mumbled under his breath, and Ianto knew he was right. They walked through the dark tunnels together. "Why did I get this and you get that?" Owen asked.
"Another good question for Tosh," replied Ianto. For some reason, he was strangely unconcerned. It was a fine suit and he felt pretty damn good in it. He wondered what the girls would think, what Jack would think…then he wondered if they'd been affected as well. He hadn't heard Jack bellow, but that didn't mean Jack wasn't upstairs in his office trying to figure out why he suddenly had a sword strapped to his hip. Of course, with Ianto's luck, Jack was probably wearing a black breathing mask instead, or had a mouthful of metal teeth.
As he stepped into the Hub, Ianto tried to curb his disappointment when saw Jack leaning over Tosh's shoulder at her computer. He was wearing his own clothes, which in some circles could certainly qualify as costume dress, and glanced up with a grin as Ianto and Owen joined them.
"We were just going to call you. Tosh picked up a slight power surge in…" He trailed off as he noticed their clothing. "Whoa. In the archive. Tosh, I think I found something."
"What?" asked Tosh, glancing away from her screens. She saw Ianto and then Owen and her eyes went wide. "Oh. Oh my."
Ianto was fairly certain she was blushing. Jack was staring at him so intensely that Ianto thought he might blush as well.
"Jack, I just got off the phone with—" Gwen stopped as she came up behind Tosh's station. She too stared. "Er, bit early for Halloween, isn't it boys?"
Owen grumbled under his breath. Ianto smiled again, mostly because he enjoyed anything that rubbed Owen the wrong way. He pulled at his sleeves, straightened his tie, and nodded. "A good idea should I find myself in need of a costume for all the Halloween parties I won't be attending this year, but I assure you this was completely unintentional. Owen found a new toy and I'm guessing it's some sort of costume replicator."
"A costume replicator?" asked Tosh. "Is there such a thing?"
Jack was silent; Ianto was starting to worry about the dazed look in Jack's eyes. "Well, I have no idea, but the evidence would certainly seem to indicate a strong possibility, wouldn't it? I don't normally wear a dinner suit to work."
"And I hate Star Wars," Owen grumbled.
"Liar," Ianto mumbled under his breath. Owen glared at him.
"Look, I was in the archives with Ianto trying to find something that might help me with the scalpel. I found this—" he handed Tosh the device he'd been messing around with at the time—"and even though I swear I didn't press a single button, I felt like I'd been shocked, fell on my arse, and got up to find myself looking like this."
"It looks good on you, Owen," Gwen said, apparently getting over her initial shock. "I always did like Han Solo. Disgruntled smuggler with a heart of gold."
Jack tore his eyes away from Ianto and glanced at Owen. He smirked. "I agree, Owen. The mercenary captain was always a favorite."
Ianto coughed to get everyone's attention. "Yes, yes, we all love Han Solo, but how did Owen end up dressed like him? You said you registered some kind of power surge?"
Tosh looked away from Owen and let her eyes run up and down Ianto in a very un-Tosh like manner. He gave her a surprised look that she returned with an unapologetic grin. "Sorry, Ianto, but you make a great James Bond."
"It's perfect," said Jack. "All you need is a martini—shaken, not stirred." He said the last in the tone of voice that always went straight to Ianto's cock. He shifted uncomfortably.
"Perhaps later," he murmured, exchanging a look with Jack that made Owen groan out loud.
"Stop with the eye fucks, please. Can we figure this out before you get it on?"
"I think Ianto's right and your new little toy is a sort of costuming device," said Jack, taking the artifact from Owen. "They're not unheard of for theater in the future. I don't know how it came up with these two for you if you didn't program it, but it did a good job. Very in character."
"I don't care how good it is," said Owen. "Can you get my old clothes back?"
Ianto blinked. He hadn't even considered what had happened to his old clothes. His other suit hadn't been lying next to him in the archives; it had been completely replaced by the Brioni. Which was a damn shame because Ianto had liked that particular pinstripe, mostly because Jack had liked it, especially taking it off.
"Your old clothes were probably transformed into these," said Jack, handing it to Tosh. "And most things like this have a reverse button, so I'm sure we'll figure it out." He paused, tucking his hands behind his back as he bounced on his toes. "There's no rush, is there?"
Ianto smirked, well aware that Jack was probably thinking exactly what he was thinking: role-play. They knew each other well and played off one another's hints and cues almost perfectly most days. He nodded in agreement, Jack licked his lips in anticipation, and Owen groaned again.
"I am not waiting around dressed as Han fucking Solo just so you can get your rocks off, Jack."
"Keep your pants on, Owen," Jack snickered. "Tosh, what do you think?"
"I'll take a look, Jack," she said. "It's probably just a matter of running some simulations on the device to determine how to reverse the process."
"Hit a button, any button," said Owen, but Tosh shook her head.
"Without knowing what might happen, I'd rather not. You wouldn't want to end up naked, would you?"
"Or worse," murmured Ianto.
"How's it get much worse than this?" asked Owen.
Ianto raised an eyebrow. "Ewok."
Everyone laughed but Owen, who grumbled and threw himself down on the sofa, swearing violently when his blaster got stuck in his groin. Gwen watched him with a sympathetic grin before turning toward Tosh.
"Want help?" she asked. Tosh nodded and lowered her voice to a stage whisper.
"I suspect they'll be useless until we figure it out," she said.
"I never thought we'd need to rescue Han Solo and James Bond," she said, and even Jack rolled his eyes.
"Stay on it, you two," he said. "They may look hot, but it might not work so well in the field."
"I'm not going out like this," called Owen.
Jack shrugged. "It is Halloween tomorrow, Owen. It'll pass for a day or two, but after that we might start getting questions, and we already get enough of those."
"Speaking of which," Ianto interjected, finally, finally, finding his opening to get Jack where he wanted him. "We need to go over last year's files for Halloween and this year's coverage. It can be a fairly busy night."
"Too right!" said Jack, hands tucked into his pockets with a grin. "I remember this one Halloween when—"
"Your office, sir?" Ianto interrupted with a pointed look. Jack's mouth formed a little 'o' of understanding, and he nodded, putting on the fake boss voice that no one believed for a second.
"My office, Ianto. Coffee?"
"Of course. I'll bring the files."
Jack winked and bounded off to his office. Owen cracked open an eye.
"You two are so bloody obvious sometimes it's a wonder you get any work done."
Ianto shrugged. "It's a wonder we get any work done at all with you blowing things up and making them disappear all the time." He was successful in diverting Owen's attention when the doctor sat up and pointed at him.
"That is my work at the moment, and you'll be happy to benefit from it someday."
"You mean, when you have to vaporize some sort of alien inside me?" Ianto replied dryly. "Yes, I'll be forever grateful."
"Damn right you will," Owen muttered.
Ianto rolled his eyes, poked his head over Tosh's shoulder to watch her for a moment, then moved off to make coffee for Jack while they went over the Halloween files. Not that he expected to actually go over any files. He poured one cup and grabbed the first folder he saw on his desk, then headed up to Jack's office, fully intending to pour himself a martini just to see the effect it would have on Jack.
Author's Note:
Once upon a time two Torchwood fans came together to write and beta. They were named Gmariam and Taamar. And not only did they write and beta but they bred plot bunnies like no one's business. Oh, the stories they haven't yet told! This is one of them. Many thanks to Taamar for the initial costume prompt and for letting me run with it. I hope you enjoyed the beginning. There are a two or three more parts to go and I do hope you enjoy them all, although I might change the rating for the next one. As for the title…I really have no idea, but as soon as I typed it, that was it. Thanks for reading!