WELCOME TO THE NEW EPISODE, CLOSING TIME!
There won't be any dillying about this time - straight into the mayhem, as I'm sure you'll be able to tell by this chapter.
Oh, and check out: community (dot) livejournal (dot) com (slash) fourteenfandom. That's where the three authors (myself, CC and Scarf Warriors) are discussing our various plots, so you can see where we're going with the plot, and vote for what you'd like to see next, who you'd like to see get together - that sort of thing, as well as character profiles and drabbles. Anyway, it's a little lonely with just the three of us, so please join in and chat!
bbmcowgirl - I'm the author of Fourteen. CommaConcept is the author of The Thirteenth Adventures. The Scarf Warriors is the author of Return Trip. All three of our fics cross over into each other. Hope that clears things up.
Please review and let me know what you think. We'll be back to 9pm updates for a while, hurrah!
"Jack?" Ianto's head peered around the doorway of the office.
"Mm?" Jack didn't actually glance up, as he was absorbed – well, perhaps irritated would have been a better word – by a stack of reports that UNIT had sent him. He might even have answered them, had they been sent care of Martha Jones, but they had been stamped rather than signed, and sent by courier, and Jack wasn't the sort of man to respond to the impersonal approach. He wondered briefly what sort of reaction he'd get from Whitehall if he returned the reports with rude post-it notes attached (he had quite a supply in his desk drawer, some even with pictures – he and Ianto got so bored during boardroom meetings).
But Ianto interrupted his train of thought. "1941. Were you working for Torchwood back then?"
"Hm?" Jack looked up. He hadn't been expecting a question like that. "Yeah… Freelance. Why?"
Ianto jerked his thumb backward. "Been down in the morgue, trying to sort through and see what survived the blast. The upper levels were blown to pieces, so we lost most of the uncatalogued lot, but we've still got several floors of Torchwood employees relatively undamaged." He saw Jack's attention wavering, and quickly skipped to the point. "Anyway, in the reports, all the archivists have noted that Tray 18's been empty – one Gregory Phillip Bishop, reported dead in 1941."
"Oh." Jack's expression was unreadable. "Ignore that tray. Greg went….missing. Presumed dead." He waved a hand at Ianto. "Don't worry about it."
"Can't really help worrying about it, Jack," Ianto said hesitantly. "Because there is a body in Tray 18."
Jack looked up again for a second, saw no trace of humour on Ianto's face, and subsequently bolted out of the office, scattering the UNIT reports in his wake.
As Ianto pulled the tray out once more, he heard Jack exhale sharply behind him. "I'm guessing that's Greg, then?"
"Yeah," Jack murmured, moving closer and resting his hands on the edge of the tray. "That's Greg all right." He removed one of his hands from the tray and ran it through Greg's hair. It was dark, darker than Ianto's, and Jack remembered the gorgeous blue eyes that lay under those closed lids. The smile was gone from the young man's face now (how old had he been? Not more than twenty-five, as Jack recalled) , but he remembered that, too. And those wonderful cheekbones, they were there still. Jack ran his finger along them, stopped abruptly.
"Jack?" Ianto asked tentatively.
"I felt him breathing," Jack whispered, his fingers rushing down to meet Greg's neck. "Ianto, he has a pulse!"
Ianto stared at him for a moment in shock, then reached for Greg's shoulders. Simultaneously, Jack slipped his arms underneath to support his legs, and together they lifted him from the freezing tray and onto the cold stone floor.
Jack crouched beside the lifeless body. Ianto stood for a moment before kneeling beside him. "Jack, you imagined it. He's been in sub-zero temperatures. Even if he was alive before, he won't be now. You probably just felt the air being propelled in the tray." He didn't meet the Captain's eye, because he could tell from the way Jack was looking at the other young man that something had gone on. And while Ianto didn't probe into the whys and wherefores, he hated watching Jack say goodbye again. He hated seeing him break just that little bit more, because he knew that he could never fix it.
Although this might be what he needed. Jack's expression when he explained that Greg had gone missing told Ianto that it was unresolved. That Greg hadn't left of his own accord, that Jack had never had the chance to say goodbye.
But Jack didn't seem to be wasting words on farewells now, either. "Then how do you explain the pulse?"
Ianto was silent. Because if you want something enough, reality starts to fade away. And both he and Jack knew that unspoken reasoning. "I didn't imagine it, Ianto. Just like the rest of the archivists didn't imagine that he was missing. If his body can suddenly turn up back in the morgue, then why is it so impossible that he's alive?"
"Because we like to think that the Hub defences are impenetrable, whereas last time I checked, it was scientific fact that the human body couldn't survive fifty degrees below zero for more than a few minutes. If that."
"So maybe he wasn't in there that long." Jack was holding Greg's wrist firmly with one hand, and still stroking his hair with the other. Droplets of water were forming on the strands, condensation from the sudden change in temperature.
Ianto grimaced. "Jack, it took me a couple of minutes to walk up to your office and talk to you, and that was after I'd taken the time to re-read the reports on him. All things considered, for him to still be alive, he would have to have been placed in cryogenic suspension literally a second before I opened the tray."
"So maybe he was."
"Jack, I'm aware that this is Torchwood, but can we try and employ some sort of logic, just this once?"
Jack cut him off with a single word. "Bilis."
Ianto stared at him. "What does Bilis have to do with this?" A trace of fear lingered in his eyes, quickly masked by an outward display of irritation as he crossed his arms and frowned. They had only just gotten rid of Bilis. He hated the thought that the old man might be back quite so suddenly.
"Everything." Jack seemed surprised by the look of incomprehension on Ianto's face. "That was how Greg went missing. Bilis took him. For the sake of the Light creatures." Ianto still didn't look like he understood. "Tretarri."
As soon as he spoke that word, comprehension dawned. Ianto remembered Tretarri – tried not to, because it brought along with it memories of a future in which the Torchwood team had been possessed, and Jack imprisoned, and Ianto had died trying to save him. Not that Ianto had ever admitted this future to the Captain, because goodness knew Jack had a big enough ego as it was, and Ianto was afraid enough to admit how he felt about Jack in words, let alone with actions. He guessed that Jack knew, and that was enough. But he now remembered seeing the young man's face before, as an image created by halogen Light. "You think that Bilis just decided to give Greg back?"
The sarcasm was evident in Ianto's voice, which was hardly unexpected. Bilis had never been one for helping them; he always had some ulterior motive. Besides, why now? Greg had been taken in 1941 – why return him in 2009? There didn't appear to be any strange significance to it.
"How else do you explain it, Ianto?" asked Jack. "Who else do you know that can get in and out of the Hub without us knowing, and that can move people from one time to another?"
He was employing logic now, and Ianto didn't like it. "Okay. So, for now, let's assume that Bilis did this." Ianto gestures toward the thawing body. "How do you know that's Greg? It could be a trap, Jack. More than likely, it is."
"I'm aware of that." Jack hardly expected Bilis to suddenly return his former team-member out of the goodness of his heart. All the same, hadn't the old man mentioned something about thanking Jack for his (involuntary) hand in Bilis' creation? I might even leave you a gift. So that was what this was. Greg was some sort of strange peace offering from Bilis Manger.
The grip on his wrist tightened, and Jack looked down to find Greg's fingers curled tightly around his own. Ianto watched this with alarm. "Okay, so there is the slightest chance that he might be alive after all," he admitted, a mixture of fear and amazement in his voice.
Greg's eyes fluttered before revealing another pair of gorgeous blue eyes to the world. His first new breath carried a quiet word. "Jack."
And then he was smiling all over his face, and pushing himself up from the cold stone floor, though he was too weak to support his own numb body. Jack moved to catch him as he fell forward and found Greg's lips rested on his own before he could protest – but why would he protest? Oh God, he'd forgotten how good Greg was with his tongue- oh – they hadn't – hadn't kissed like this since Greg had been stolen from him – moments before, in fact, when he'd nearly been shot – when he'd collapsed in Jack's arms, sobbing and kissing – like they were now.
Jack's fingers automatically trailed down Greg's shoulder, felt along the places that he knew his arm had been broken. There was nothing there now. He felt the young man's tongue press harder against his own – and then they broke apart, interrupted by the noise of Ianto shifting awkwardly to his feet nearby.
Greg turned to stare at the unfamiliar face for a second, then bit his lip. "I suppose you must be my replacement," he murmured, and Ianto's pity was quickly overcome with seething rage – how dare this young man suggest that he had been a replacement? It wasn't as though someone from 1941 would have been the first himself, and Ianto half-opened his mouth to say something.
But Greg's attention had already been diverted elsewhere, to the man who now had his arms wrapped firmly around him. He stroked Jack's cheek gently. "He said you needed a medic," he whispered in Jack's ear. "But I suppose I'm late as always, aren't I, Jack?" He glanced back across at Ianto. "I could be an assistant though, couldn't I?"
Ianto, who had only heard this last remark, and not the ones previous, widened his eyes. "Pardon?"
Greg looked at him desperately. "You must need some sort of help. I mean… I could clean up afterwards, if you like. Or I could pass you surgical instruments." Ianto frowned as him, sure that they had gotten their wires crossed at some point during this conversation.
Jack cupped Greg's cheeks in his hands. "He's not our medic," he said gently. "He's our archivist."
Greg's eyes widened. "Like Rhydian?" Jack nodded. "Then why is he wearing surgical gloves?"
"Because I was checking on bodies in the morgue," Ianto replied, sounding rather matter-of-fact as he gestured around them. "Can't say I was expecting one to still have a pulse, but then, this is Torchwood. Six impossible things before breakfast."
Greg smiled nervously, as though he were afraid to laugh. "I can't say I ever honestly expected to be back here." His fingers found Jack's cheek once more. "I missed you."
Jack smirked at him, though there was warmth behind it. "It's only been days for you. You can't have missed me that much."
"I did."
"Greg?" Ianto regarded him with a mild expression. "I may be the archivist, but I'm also a trained field officer, so I carry a gun that I know how to use. Kiss Jack again and I'll be very tempted." He smiled.
Greg just chuckled.