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Chapter 2: A Sweet Opportunity

resurrectionist: noun; one who steals bodies from graves in order to sell them for dissection; a body snatcher.

Edinburgh, Scotland, 1828

It was cold, so very cold. Late January and the remnants of a heavy snow remained stuck to the ground, dirty and yellowed and quickly turning to sludge under the constant mist of rain that pummelled the earth. It was like the sky was spitting. Not enough rain to melt the snow and ice, just enough to make it a little more miserable, a little harder to traverse. And William Hare was currently trudging through one of the narrow wynds with a heavy sack slung over his shoulder, moving carefully, crunching through the ungodly mess of dirt and grime and melting ice, when suddenly, from above, someone called out a warning of: "Gardy Loo!" Will flung himself back against the stone wall of a tall tenant house, narrowly avoiding being hit with the contents of a chamber pot that was thrown out of a side window in one of the upper floors. The muck landed a bare arm's span away from him, splattering the tips of his boots. "Ugh!" he gasped, and he wound his threadbare wool scarf even tighter around his mouth and nose. The stench was abominable. Will hurried away, up to the top entrance of the cobbled path, moving as quickly as the heavy burden over his shoulder would allow.

He was almost home to Tanner's Close.

Will stopped to drag the toes of his boots through a standing bank of snow, sloughing off the muck. It was a difficult balancing act, what with the heavy sack he was carrying. He managed it without falling and continued his way up the street, a street which felt claustrophobic beneath the tall, shadowy stacks of four and five story buildings lining either side, buildings which seemed to tilt inward like sleepy, nodding giants. Will heard a steady cracking sound from above; one of his neighbors was beating ice from the laundry against the side of the window-the linens had frozen stiff overnight. Will scampered through the shimmering fall of ice chips, felt a couple of them bounce off his cap like impromptu hail. He gritted his teeth in growing annoyance. He'd had enough snow and ice to last a lifetime...

Will turned and abruptly disappeared down a barely visible staircase which lead to his own lodgings. At the bottom, sitting beneath the straw awning on a wobbly wooden stool, was an old man in a brown knitted coat, a half-empty bottle conspicuously in hand. "Young Will," he greeted merrily, with a smile that was missing several teeth, giving it the illusion of a piano keyboard. "It's a lurv-er-ly day out, is it not?" He raised his bottle in mock salute.

Will merely shook his head, lowering his scarf. "It's not lovely; it's miserable," he said gloomily. His blue eyes slid to the bottle of whisky the old man had obviously been nursing all morning. "You've been looking at it all wrong through the bottom of that bottle again."

The old man wheezed out a laugh which abruptly turned into an uncontrollable cough. "Aye. Maybe so. But it keeps my bones good and warm."

Will shifted the heavy sack he was carrying to the opposite shoulder. "Come on, Wallace," he said with an imploring tone. "You know I can't have you hanging 'round the front door like this. Margaret will get mad. She says it looks 'disreputable'."

"But Will, the snow's finally melting-"

"-no 'buts,' Wallace! You gotta go elsewhere." And without waiting for a response, Will stepped by the old man, through the front door of his own house, nudging it open with the toe of his boot. Once inside, he shut the door with his other boot and made a beeline for the fire that was crackling, flashing like a welcoming beacon of warmth in the center of the room. In a chair on the opposite side of the fire sat Burke with his shoes off and his sock-covered toes propped against the front of the grate.

Will dropped the heavy bundle he'd been carrying and sunk wearily down by the fire, removing his gloves to better warm his cold, shivering hands. His eyes met Burke's across the way. And Burke, with a suspicious look, finally said, "So...what ya got in the sack there, Will?"

Without a word, Will reached back to untie the string that was holding the sack closed. Several lumps of coal fell out, and he picked them up one by one and tossed them into the fire. "Had to go out to the Grassmarket for some coal; Margaret said the braziers in all the rooms were 'bout out," he said by way of explanation. And then, as if her name had been an invocation, Mrs. Hare materialized.

"Will!" she all but yelled. "Where have you been all morning? I sent you out for that coal an age ago..."

Will sighed and rolled his eyes. "The snow and ice slowed me down a bit, Madge. That's all," he insisted. Of course, what had really slowed him down was the detour he'd taken through St. Mary's Wynd, where he had meandered, lingering to stare longingly through the shiny, clean shop windows at all the lovely, rich items for sale. There he had fallen into a haze of daydreaming-nice, warm daydreams which had taken him far away from the smell and dirt and toil of Tanner's Close. And from his old, screeching harpy of a wife...

"Will," said Margaret Hare, hands planted firmly on her hips. "That old man Joseph has got to go. He coughs all day and night. It's making the other lodgers nervous-"

"-he's sick. I can't just throw a sick old man out in the cold-"

"-yes you can! I won't have it, Will. Folks won't go near a tenant house they think's been taken with the fever. He's got to go." With this, Mrs. Hare turned on her heel and stalked from the room.

Will hung his head with a heavy sigh. Why, oh why, had he married the widow Loge? He couldn't believe the current state of his life. One minute, he was a simple bagman lodging with James and Margaret Loge. The next minute, James was dead, and suddenly Will had replaced the old man in his wife's bed, even though he was only twenty-one years old, and Madge was a full decade older than he. And then, like an idiot, he had gone and married her. Married her! Well, on the bright side, at least he didn't have to be a bagman or pay rent anymore...

With another annoyed sigh, Will jumped up and clomped his way up the steps to the second floor. He could feel Burke's eyes on his back as he went. He stopped in front of the room that belonged to the miller Joseph. He banged on the door and waited. After a minute or two and no sound was heard from within, Will pushed open the door and stepped inside the room.

Silence consumed the small space. Silence, except for a tiny, wheezing sound that emanated from the lumpy, feathered bed, a sound like one hears when pumping a bellows. The miller's room was shrouded in a dim, gray afternoon light-dull and faded as it passed through the dirty panes of a single window. No lamp was lit within; no fire burned in the grate. The room was cold, dark, and lifeless.

Except for the wheezing sound coming from the bed.

Will heard a pair of heavy footsteps behind him, saw a shadow fall across the doorway where he stood. He knew it was Burke. After a moment, he heard the cobbler say, ominously:

"Not long for this world now, is he?"

As if on cue, the wheezing abruptly stopped. Will's hand tensed on the door frame; he watched the unmoving lump on the bed with trepidation. After a few heartbeats, the wheezing started up again, albeit tentatively. Will loosened his grip.

"You heard what Mrs. Hare said, Will. No one wants to board at a house tainted by the fever," Burke whispered from behind him.

"I know, but..." and here Will faltered, unsure of what to do. However, Burke was more than sure. He brushed by Will and entered the room, silently approaching the bed. Will watched his shadow move in the dim, gray light. Watched as Burke reached across the bed to pick up one of the feathered pillows. In the burgeoning gloom, Will heard him whisper:

"No-not long for this world now. So...what say we help our sick friend here on out of his misery, and make a little profit along the way. Hmm?"

Will closed his eyes. He heard Madge's words, He's got to go! echo in his head with a mounting threat. He also thought of all the gold and silver and soft, well-made fabrics encased behind the window glass on St. Mary Wynd's-all the rich, unattainable things he couldn't have, couldn't afford. Then hesitantly-reluctantly-he shut the door behind him, just as Burke began to slowly lower the pillow across the miller's fevered, sleeping face...

Cardiff, Wales, Present Day

Ianto burst through the doors of Jack's office, waving the print-out of the e-mail in his right hand. "Jack, have you seen this e-mail?" he asked excitedly.

Jack looked up from his desk, the top of which was strewn with various pieces and parts, mechanisms and wires. Ianto recognized what it was immediately.

"You're trying to fix your vortex manipulator?" Ianto asked with a hint of suspicion. "I thought the D-uh, he-didn't want you to use that thing anymore." Ianto didn't like saying the D word; it was a sticking point with him. He felt a pang of jealousy stab sharply at his gut as he thought about the time Jack had up and left him without word, left him for the man in the spinning blue box...

Yes, but look-he came back to you, said the reassuring little voice in the back of his head.

Oh, but he would leave you again in a heartbeat if that man in the blue box asked him to-you know he would, said the nastier, warring voice inside of him.

Not true, said the other, gentler voice.

Oh, it's more than true. said the dark voice. You know it. And just what do you think you are to him? Honestly? You've seen him once outside this office. Once. One date. Face it, Mr. Jones. You are just a happy distraction while he sits and waits here for the one he really wants...

Ianto swallowed back the lump of wavering self-confidence that was suddenly stuck in his throat. He stared down at the various parts on the desk, lost in his own conflicting thoughts, the e-mail in his hand temporarily forgotten. He watched as Jack pulled at his hair in frustration, then abruptly Jack said: "It doesn't matter. I can't get it to work anyway." Jack finally raised his head, looked at him straight on. And Ianto felt those mischievous blue eyes work their usual magic on him, a magic that made him forget about everything work-related that was going on, made him forget about every nagging, preceding piece of doubt that had wandered through his brain. That gaze washed it all away. Ianto didn't move, didn't speak. Finally Jack prompted him:

"Uh-you said you had something you wanted to show me?"

Ianto stared dumbly at the paper in his own hand. "Oh, yes! This! It's an urgent request from Torchwood Scotland." Ianto held out the e-mail.

Jack stared at the e-mail as if it were on fire. Reluctantly, he took it from Ianto's hand. "An e-mail? From Albert? You're kidding. That man doesn't ask for help, not from anyone," Jack muttered testily. His eyes skimmed the page.

"You've dealt with this Albert person before?" asked Ianto, vaguely intrigued.

"No, not really. He's kind of a loner. Prefers to do everything by himself. About every couple of years or so, he'll leave me a voicemail berating me on the lousy way I do my job. "Harkness! What do you think you're doing down there? I can feel seismic vibrations from that rift all the way up here in Edinburgh! Get your shit under control, man! What kind of branch captain are you?" Jack did a rough imitation of a gruff, overbearing Scottish accent, just melodramatic enough to make Ianto laugh.

"That's kind of funny," said Ianto. "Does he really talk to you that way?"

"Yes," said Jack flatly, as if he wished it were otherwise.

"So...what do you think of his request then?"

Jack leaned back in his chair, propped his boots on his desk. "Hard to say. It says here that eight people have vanished in the catacombs of the South Bridge vaults over the past two months. He's investigated and scanned for alien tech, the whole nine yards, and has come up with nothing-squat. And the disappearances are getting...harder for him to cover up." Jack rubbed his chin in contemplation. "Well, that definitely makes things a little trickier. And harder to ignore."

Ianto stuffed his hands in his pockets. He seemed to shrink in on himself a little. "Aren't those-uhm, aren't those old vaults supposed to be haunted?"

Jack looked up. "Haunted?" There was a teasing note in Jack's voice. "Ianto, don't tell me you believe in ghosts now?"

"No, not...ghosts," said Ianto. "But maybe things masquerading as ghosts?"

Jack nodded his head in understanding. "I suppose that's possible. But still, with the rift acting up the way Tosh says it is right now, I can't really spare the man power."

Ianto's eyes lit up. Suddenly, there was an opportunity at hand. A very sweet opportunity. So he said quickly, persuasively: "Well, why don't you and I go, and we leave the rest of the team here to monitor the rift?"

Jack arched an eyebrow at this suggestion. "I don't know. I don't really want to deal with Albert Ferguson and his cranky attitude either-"

"-but Jack, if people are really disappearing up there, then shouldn't we at least go and check it out?"

"But my place is here-"

"-Gwen can be in charge while you're gone. She's done it before. And she's great at it. Nothing to worry about," Ianto suggested hurriedly.

A look of suspicion dawned across Jack's face, as bright as the morning sun. "Ianto," he said in a firm, I'm-in-charge-here tone. "This wouldn't be like the two of us going away on holiday, you know. If we're going to go, then this would be for work, an official investigation.

Ianto pulled an innocent face, one of round, baby blue eyes that appeared, to the outside observer, to be completely bereft of manipulation. "I know that." he answered casually, without inflection. Then he added surreptitiously, "So we are going then?"

Jack tugged mercilessly at his hair again, making it stand out in all directions. It was all Ianto could do to not reach out and touch it. "Yey, I suppose," Jack relented with a sigh. "You make the arrangements. I'll send Albert an e-mail. Then we'll tell the rest of the team."

"Yes, sir." And Ianto forced himself to turn and walk away normally, to not spring out of the room like some happy, bouncy puppy. Yes! He and Jack were going to be alone together! At last! As he walked through the hub, Ianto couldn't keep a glowing, sheepish grin from forming on his face. They were going to Edinburgh! Just the of two of them! And not only would they be alone together, he could also show Jack that he was a capable, valuable member of the team! That he was more than someone who just made coffee and ordered take away! This was the perfect opportunity!

And so what if the South Bridge vaults were allegedly filled with 'ghosts.' And so what if eight people had disappeared inside of them, never to be heard from again...

Ianto didn't think about any of these things as he sat down in front of his computer to book a flight for himself and Jack to Scotland. Not about ghosts, or cantankerous branch captains, or missing persons. No, Ianto Jones had one thing on his mind as he made travel arrangements:

That Edinburgh was the absolutely perfect city for a romantic holiday...

End Chapter 2.

Ianto really does not like the 'D' word-he-he! Too bad, because that one will be making an appearance later on in this fic. (but will it be the 10th, or 11th? Hmm...) Love triangles, anyone? I hope you like the story so far! Leave me some feedback if you do! I love it! :)