2
Ianto is about to retract his reply to the silly ad, when his phone chimes.
Feeling nervous, he flicks the email open.
He blinks, thinking this dude must enjoying teasing penniless ex-soldiers, except he re-reads the instructions. They're too precise, business-like almost—the kind that says 'I'm not kidding around'.
Ianto asks him if this all an elaborate joke. No response. he shivers, and look around the flea-bitten motel room. A rickety chair with peeling paint leans against the door that doesn't quite lock properly. On the floor by the creaky bed is the army-issued duffel bag containing all his belongings.
He has two jeans, three shirts, five pairs of socks and boxers, and a thin fleece jacket that's not going to keep him warm during the next few weeks.
Oh, and one battered pair of boots that have seen better days.
Ianto takes stock of his possessions and realizes he needs to do this. As much as he hates to admit it, he needs the spare cash. Home is a thousand miles away and he can barely scrounge up enough for a single plane ticket.
Hell, he plans to avoid heading back to Cardiff with his head bowed.
A warm roof might be waiting for him there, but he can't face his family. Being shouted at for being a quitter was one thing, but their silences were worse. He left to enlist the moment he reached the legal age. Said college was for pussies, but at twenty-three, he didn't have any answers.
The army let him back out after the incident, older, scarred, and no less wise. Ianto began his little sabbatical from the military by hitchhiking his way across America's roads. He would take odd jobs, a decent short-order cook, a passable bartender, but the jobs dried up when holiday season came around.
If playing a psycho's dead ex-husband might earn him enough dough to keep on moving forward, then so be it.
Some people might call his logic flawed, or tell him this is insane. What if this guy turned out to be a serial killer? A psycho who got off on taking young men captive?
One date to finance him for months versus turning to something he'd regret later like stripping or whoring himself out—it was an easy answer.
You still there? The mysterious client emails back.
Tell me the where, when and other details, and I'll be there," Ianto typed, wondering if he just bought a one-way ticket to hell.
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Three days later, Ianto is walking inside the lobby of a pricey serviced apartment he will never be able to afford in this lifetime or the next. A young couple dressed in matching candy-cane striped scarves walk past him, lugging bags filled with presents. When the doorman opens the doors for them, a cold blast of wind hits Ianto's face. His ears catch the faint voices of a choir singing a block away.
No one stops him, because of what he is wearing, he looks no different from the residents here—dressed top to bottom in designer labels, his appearance impeccable. After working out the details with Mr. Mysterious, he instantly wires funds to Ianto's bank account. He also mails him the access key to his suite.
Ianto slots the card into the lift and pushes the topmost button.
The scruffy-looking Ianto is gone.
He hardly recognizes himself in the reflective walls of the elevator. His clipped hair is slicked back and underneath his new Burberry coat he is wearing a suit and new shoes. New clothes don't make me a new man though. Pristine on the outside, but still damaged on the inside, but he doubts his employer will notice.
He has specific requirements, this client. Right down to the tiny details like the itty bitty uncomfortable briefs Ianto is supposed to be wearing, to the miniature gold airplane cuff links only one shop in the entire city sells.
Hell, Ianto spent the last three days scouring the city for his requirements. Lucky for Jack, Ianto didn't turn tail and run. Then again, add crazy to the rich asshole mix and you get one maniac you wouldn't want to cross.
No doubt a guy like this has a private security team working for him.
Imagining what he looks like doesn't help Ianto's nerves either.
How old is he? How does he look like?
Apparently his father was a shut-in, just like him.
Ianto is starting to get cold feet.
The lift reaches the penthouse suite. Ianto counts to ten mentally in his head. Do multiplication tables until his heart reverts to its usual rhythm.
Ianto decides to play this right, no matter how creepy or unpleasant he is. As long he behaves, Ianto won't need to use the firearm he keep tucked in the shoulder holster.
Ianto almost expects Mozart or Beethoven to be streaming from the high-def speakers in the room. Maybe see some pretentious-looking modern art pieces and heavy ornate furniture, but the interior is surprisingly minimalist but functional.
He nearly sighs with relief, until he catches sight of the pictures on the wall.
His heart halts. For a second, he is unable to breathe.
Shots of him, or a guy who looks remarkably like him, are plastered all over the apartment, except this guy smiles easy. He looks like he doesn't have a care in the world. Ignoring the chill creeping down his spine, Ianto studies the second guy beside his doppelganger.
"Damn," he mutters under his breath. If the surly but gorgeous well-built hunk is his employer, he wants to kick himself. How old …. How long ago was this photo taken? Years of grief can change a man. He can neglect his body. Look fifty years older. "You don't look like a psycho."
Perhaps there's a date. He peers at the photo more closely, and jumps when a hand touches his shoulder.
"Am I supposed to take that as a fucking compliment, boy?" a voice growls close to his ear.
All his instincts are screaming at him to run, to take cover and strategize, but he wills himself to turn slowly.
Ianto read somewhere it's unwise to show weakness in front of a predator. Up close, Mr. Mysterious is huge. At six-feet plus he towers over Ianto's Six-one.
Ianto's mouth goes dry. A couple of gray threads in his dark unruly mane, but otherwise, his client looks exactly like the man in the photo.
"Um. Hi. I'm Ianto." Ianto extends a hand. No harm being friendly.
Jack frowns. On closer inspection, Ianto is mistaken. He's not the same.
Older and tougher, Mr. Mysterious also packs more muscle.
Unable to help himself, Ianto rakes his gaze across his rough, but handsome unshaven face, then to his smoking hot body. He's built like a fighter or linebacker, and it occurs to Ianto that nothing about him is soft.
At first, Ianto thinks he's like hard steel, but no. He's iron, because there's something brittle inside him.
"Jack Harkness," he says in a rough and gruff voice.
Standing only inches apart, Ianto is aware of the heat between their bodies, hoping to escape the confines of their skin. Jack only has to look down to see the visible bulge straining against Ianto's trousers.
Then his name rings a bell. A few years ago, the CEO of a group of companies went berserk during a charity ball after his partner had been run down by a drunk driver. Rumour had it Jack, stopped the car and practically ripped the driver's door off to get the culprit. Local cops arrived in time to pump tranquilizer darts into him and drop him cold.
Jack's gaze darkens and it occurs to Ianto the bastard expects him to run. To tell him some kind of lame excuse so he no longer has to see this to the finish. Ianto almost lashes out at him. He never learned to pick his fights, but he doesn't because he glimpses the sliver of weakness there.
Jack's just as lonely as Ianto is.
Desperate for some company, even a stranger's, so he won't spend Christmas Eve alone.
"I smell fear on you, boy…and arousal."
Ianto's sympathy vanishes. He glowers at him. "Nice way to greet your date, buddy. And I have a name. Besides, I'm not the only one sporting a hard-on."
Ianto gestures to his trousers. Jack blinks, but he not done. "If you think you can scare me away after a couple of growls, then you have another thing coming."
"I see that now and I'm sorry for being an ass," Jack says.
He studies Ianto intently. Discomfort of a different sort rams into Ianto.
Why do I have a feeling Jack possesses the ability to see what most men can't? To reach places I want to keep buried?
"Would you like something to drink?"
"Beer, if you have any." Ianto knows he going off-script. After the funds transfer, Jack also mailed him a list of approved lines, in case you're wondering, but he doesn't remark on the fact his dead husband preferred wine.
"Sure." He lumbers to the fridge, tugging at his tie in irritation.
It occurs to Ianto that Jack's the kind of guy who looks more comfortable in an old pair of jeans and a flannel shirt.
He is starting to dislike this John.
Ianto knows nothing about him, or his relationship with Jack, but he sure managed to sink his hooks deep into Jack before going back to the dirt.
Not my place to speculate about the lives of others either, especially a client I won't see again after tonight.
Jack hands Ianto the bottle and gets one for himself.
"This is a mistake," he mumbles. Ianto is about to protest, but Jack continues, "You didn't do anything wrong. In fact you look…fucking perfect, but I changed my mind. I'll send the rest of the promised payment."