Long Live Ianto Bingo 2012
Dec. 4th, 2012 05:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
galadriel1010I was hoping to do a post a day of my LongLiveIanto bingo until Christmas, but it's the 4th and I've not started yet, so I'll do two a day for the next three days. I will...
Title: The Past Victorious
Chapter Title: Chapter 1
Challenge/Fest: LongLiveIanto Bingo
Prompt: Unexpected Time Travel
Rating: T
Dedication: For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
laligin
Summary: The Rift claims Ianto and sweeps him back into Cardiff's past. With a bit of luck and quick thinking, he lands firmly on his feet, ready to help the next wandering traveller and keep him out of Torchwood's clutches.
Characters: Ianto, Jack, historical figures and OCs.
Contains: Homophobia.
Disclaimer: Torchwood and its environs, occurrences and persons belong to the BBC. The original characters have disowned me.
Cardiff had changed a lot since he left, the night after his dad’s funeral. The Bay redevelopment had turned the grotty, dangerous docks into a mini-Canary Wharf, full of glass and concrete. He wasn’t much more fond of it than he was of the actual Canary Wharf, but it was a vast improvement, especially in terms of drinks availability. Shaneand Tilly and Ben had met him down there and dragged him around their new haunts, and then abandoned him in the Waterguard - reconstructed after its move not long after he left. They all lived within walking distance of the Bay, now, in moderately expensive flats that overlooked tidied-up docks, but Ianto still had to get the bus out to the estate to get back to his sister’s.
He paused on the bridge and looked down into Roald Dahl Plass and the flashing, changing light pillars. His breath fogged in front of his face and the soft but determined drizzle was soaking him, so he had the area to himself. London was never this quiet, even in the pissing rain, and Rhiannon’s house certainly wasn’t with two toddlers around, so he was enjoying the peace and quiet whilst it lasted. The lights reflected off the wet floor, both the decorative pillars and the neon glow from the restaurants overlooking it. A brighter light appeared behind him suddenly, dispelling some of the fainter reflections, and he turned to face it.
Too late, he realised what it was and started scrambling back. With the rail fo the bridge behind him he couldn’t get far enough away - a drop of that height onto a wet, slippery floor didn’t count as escape, and the water on the boards made him skid and crash into the rail hard. Winded and gasping, he pushed away from it again, staggered backwards, and was suddenly blinded by the brilliant, burning light...
****
“You alright, lad?” An Irish voice asked him. “You took a nasty fall, there.”
He blinked up at the face looking down at him and noted the clothes. The man, probably no older than he was, wore a grimy flat cap on unruly and dirty auburn hair. His face was lined and weatherbeaten far beyond his years, and smudged with mud and oil. His clothes were rough and serviceable, brown and grey predominantly, a shirt that couldn’t keep the weather out and coarse woolen trousers, and heavy boots that had seen plenty of wear.
“I... yeah.” He looked around and realised he was lying against a crate, close to a large hole. “Must have been knocked over...”
“It’s them carts. Don’t care who they hit.” The stranger reached down and offered Ianto his hand. “Let’s get you up. Don’t want them lovely clothes getting dirty.”
“Thanks.” Ianto let his rescuer pull him to his feet and swayed a bit for effect. “I must have hit my head or something. Do you mind if I just sit down, for a moment?”
“Not a jot, mate. Look, I’ve got to get back to work, but the foreman’s office is over there.” He pointed at a hut at the end fo the hole, which had its door firmly closed and smoke rising from the chimney. “I assume that’s who you’re looking for, or he’ll know where to find whatever it is. Name’s Andrew O’Sullivan, by the way. If you want to mention it.” He winked at Ianto and ducked behind another ballistic cart, disappearing into the busy melee that was digging the hole out.
Ianto realised that it was the West Bute Dock under construction. One day it would be filled in and paved over, and he would stand there and watch lights reflected on the wet floor. One day, not for a very long time. It was completed in the first few years of Queen Victoria’s reign... 1838, ‘39? He rubbed his head, which was genuinely sore, thanked his lucky stars that he’d dressed up a bit for a night out and wasn’t in jeans - not that his polycotton trousers were any less anachronistic - and cursed Torchwood and all it stood for. Would stand for, as it hadn’t been founded yet.
The good news was that there was no one to come after him, because he wouldn’t have wanted to fall foul fo early Torchwood. The Archives held some pretty brutal stories, and humans were as likely to be the victims of their wrath as aliens were. But without Torchwood, he was almost certainly stuck.
He pushed that to the back of his mind and wove his way through to the office, knocking firmly on the door. It was opened by a short man with pinched features who looked him up and down and tapped his pipe against the doorframe. “You’ll be the Marquis’s man? Thought he wasn’t sending you till this afternoon - you had a fall or something?”
“A brief argument with a cart,” Ianto agreed. “It won, which should teach me a lesson. My fault.”
“Certainly was, sonny. Come on in.” He waved Ianto in and shut the door, but didn’t offer him a seat. “You’ll know Mr Carmichael?”
“Erm, no. New today.” He looked at his grimy hands and held them out. “I’d offer you my hand, but I’m a little the worse for wear at the moment. How do you do?”
“How do you do,” Carmichael responded. He was a taller man, better dressed and better fed than any of the other men Ianto had seen so far. His accent was refined and elegant, and his hair flopped in what was surely the fashion of the day. “I appreciate it, I can’t risk the plans getting damaged, you see.”
“Of course.” Ianto folded his hands behind his back and tried not to cough at the smoky atmosphere. “What was it you wanted me to deliver?”
“You’re early, so you’ll have to wait. Jones is just doing a final tally of the men on the site for the day. For the moment, you can make yourself useful by holding this light for me.” Ianto did as he was told and took the lamp to hold it over Carmichael’s notes. “What did you say your name was?” the architect asked absently.
“I didn’t, but it’s Ianto, sir. Ianto Jones.”
“Another Jones,” he sighed. “Your people have less originality than the Fenians. Can’t be helped, I suppose - it’s all a result of inbreeding.”
Ianto raised his eyebrows and stayed silent on the matter. Londoners opininons of Wales hadn’t much improved over the years, but they were at least more tactful about it.
He stood like that for half an hour or so, getting armache, until a scrawny young man dragged the door open and limped into the room. “Got the figures for you, Mr Watts. Is this the Marquis’s man?”
“It is, Jones.” He took the heavy ledger book from him, gave it a cursory look and handed it over to Ianto. “You can take that straight up to the Marquis at the castle. at least you being this early means that we can pay the men on time, for once.”
“I’ll get it up there as fast as I can,” Ianto assured him.
“You’ll get it faster than that.” Mr Watts pointed his pipe at Ianto. “And get the money back down here sooner than possible.”
“Yes, sir.” He ducked out of the still-open door, paused to get his bearings and set out up the rutted track that led towards the centre of the town and, somewhere on the other side of the smoke and fumes, the newly rennovated castle.
****
Cardiff bore little resemblance to the city he knew. One long street led up from the hustle and bustle and industry of the docks, through the wetlands to the town itself. Development was starting all along the road, but Cardiff was still small, barely developed. The castle towered above the town, surrounded by the newly-cut sandstone walls. The main gate was open and a steady stream of people were coming in and out, so Ianto tugged his fringe, and ducked through, keeping his head down as much as he could. Sooner or later, someone was going to realise that he wasn’t from around here, and the closer he got to people who knew the fashions of the day the more likely it was to happen.
A sallow youth looked him up and down disdainfully and raised his eyebrows pointedly at Ianto’s hair. “Where’s your hat?”
“Had an accident with a cart,” he explained. “I think it’s probably in the dock.”
The youth harrumphed and shook his head. “You want to be more careful down there. What’s your business, anyway?”
Ianto held the ledger up and waved it vaguely. “Reports from the dock for the Marquis. Mr Watts sent me with it.”
“You’re early. We weren’t expecting it until this afternoon. Be quick with it, he’s very busy.”
He nodded and strode as fast as he could in the direction that the youth had gestured, then hesitated. A maid emerged from the kitchens below the new house and pointed him in the right direction, and he bounded up the stairs into the library, where a handsome man in early middle aged was sifting through a mountain of papers. He looked up when Ianto entered, took one look at the state of him and laughed. “Good heavens, boy. What happened to you?” he asked, with a soft Edinburgh accent to his well-heeled tones.
“A cart,” Ianto said mildly, amused by now by the story. “We had an argument, it won, and my hat lost.”
“I can see that. Has Farnleigh sent you?”
“Watts, Sir. With the figures.” He held the ledger out and the Marquess took it with a sigh. “Sorry, Sir.”
“And so you should be.” He looked over them and shook his head. “Alright, my opportunistic little friend, come back in an hour and I’ll give you the docket. If you don’t come back, you don’t get paid.”
“... Sir?”
“I recognise all my workers, and you are not one of them.” He gave Ianto a stern look, but it was ruined by the sparkle in his eyes. “So you’re new - I don’t mind, I appreciate a man who can see opportunity and get the job done. What’s your name?”
“Ianto Jones, Sir.”
“Well, Ianto Jones, keep you nose clean and you’ll go far.” He flipped the ledger open and started work, dismissing Ianto with, “Now go and find yourself a hat, and avoid carts if you possibly can.”
****
The West Bute Dock opened to much fanfare and celebration in October 1839, and the teams who’d built it got a tidy bonus from the Marquess before they packed up and shipped out to work on railways, canals and roads across the country. Ianto waved Andrew off and watched the crowds dispersing back up to the town, or to the building works that were springing up faster and faster around them. The Marquess raised one eyebrow at Ianto and went back to ignoring him, as he had for much of the last two years, and Ianto smiled to himself, settling his hands deeper into the pockets of his thick coat.
Winter was settling in, and with the dock project complete Ianto needed to find something new, or find somewhere new. He had a small bonus, like the rest of them, enough to keep him over the winter if he chose to stay in his current lodgings, or enough to get him to London or further, to Paris or Amsterdam. What he lacked was direction, and that was nothing new.
A stately gentleman in a top hat, leaning on a cane and the arm of his daughter, was making his way past Ianto towards a waiting carriage. Ianto stepped back to let him pass, but turned back when an idea formed. “Mr Jenkins, sir?”
“Yes? Aren’t you the Marquess’s clerk?”
“One of them, sir,” he confirmed. “Or I was. I heard that you were looking for an assistant in your shop.”
“Well I am, but I don’t know that I need a clerk’s skills, and I don’t have time to train you.” He looked Ianto up and down. “Can you sew, boy?”
He smiled slowly. “My father was a master tailor, sir. I learned at his knee.”
“Well that’s different.” The old tailor looked at his daughter, who smiled back. “Be there on Monday at 8am sharp. I’ll give you a week’s trial - unpaid, mind - and we’ll see how you do.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll see you on Monday.” He stepped back again and tipped his hat to them. “Goodnight Mr Jenkins, Miss Jenkins.”
“Goodnight,” she returned his smile, “Mr Jones.”
Title: The Past Victorious
Chapter Title: Chapter 1
Challenge/Fest: LongLiveIanto Bingo
Prompt: Unexpected Time Travel
Rating: T
Dedication: For
laliginSummary: The Rift claims Ianto and sweeps him back into Cardiff's past. With a bit of luck and quick thinking, he lands firmly on his feet, ready to help the next wandering traveller and keep him out of Torchwood's clutches.
Characters: Ianto, Jack, historical figures and OCs.
Contains: Homophobia.
Disclaimer: Torchwood and its environs, occurrences and persons belong to the BBC. The original characters have disowned me.
Cardiff had changed a lot since he left, the night after his dad’s funeral. The Bay redevelopment had turned the grotty, dangerous docks into a mini-Canary Wharf, full of glass and concrete. He wasn’t much more fond of it than he was of the actual Canary Wharf, but it was a vast improvement, especially in terms of drinks availability. Shaneand Tilly and Ben had met him down there and dragged him around their new haunts, and then abandoned him in the Waterguard - reconstructed after its move not long after he left. They all lived within walking distance of the Bay, now, in moderately expensive flats that overlooked tidied-up docks, but Ianto still had to get the bus out to the estate to get back to his sister’s.
He paused on the bridge and looked down into Roald Dahl Plass and the flashing, changing light pillars. His breath fogged in front of his face and the soft but determined drizzle was soaking him, so he had the area to himself. London was never this quiet, even in the pissing rain, and Rhiannon’s house certainly wasn’t with two toddlers around, so he was enjoying the peace and quiet whilst it lasted. The lights reflected off the wet floor, both the decorative pillars and the neon glow from the restaurants overlooking it. A brighter light appeared behind him suddenly, dispelling some of the fainter reflections, and he turned to face it.
Too late, he realised what it was and started scrambling back. With the rail fo the bridge behind him he couldn’t get far enough away - a drop of that height onto a wet, slippery floor didn’t count as escape, and the water on the boards made him skid and crash into the rail hard. Winded and gasping, he pushed away from it again, staggered backwards, and was suddenly blinded by the brilliant, burning light...
****
“You alright, lad?” An Irish voice asked him. “You took a nasty fall, there.”
He blinked up at the face looking down at him and noted the clothes. The man, probably no older than he was, wore a grimy flat cap on unruly and dirty auburn hair. His face was lined and weatherbeaten far beyond his years, and smudged with mud and oil. His clothes were rough and serviceable, brown and grey predominantly, a shirt that couldn’t keep the weather out and coarse woolen trousers, and heavy boots that had seen plenty of wear.
“I... yeah.” He looked around and realised he was lying against a crate, close to a large hole. “Must have been knocked over...”
“It’s them carts. Don’t care who they hit.” The stranger reached down and offered Ianto his hand. “Let’s get you up. Don’t want them lovely clothes getting dirty.”
“Thanks.” Ianto let his rescuer pull him to his feet and swayed a bit for effect. “I must have hit my head or something. Do you mind if I just sit down, for a moment?”
“Not a jot, mate. Look, I’ve got to get back to work, but the foreman’s office is over there.” He pointed at a hut at the end fo the hole, which had its door firmly closed and smoke rising from the chimney. “I assume that’s who you’re looking for, or he’ll know where to find whatever it is. Name’s Andrew O’Sullivan, by the way. If you want to mention it.” He winked at Ianto and ducked behind another ballistic cart, disappearing into the busy melee that was digging the hole out.
Ianto realised that it was the West Bute Dock under construction. One day it would be filled in and paved over, and he would stand there and watch lights reflected on the wet floor. One day, not for a very long time. It was completed in the first few years of Queen Victoria’s reign... 1838, ‘39? He rubbed his head, which was genuinely sore, thanked his lucky stars that he’d dressed up a bit for a night out and wasn’t in jeans - not that his polycotton trousers were any less anachronistic - and cursed Torchwood and all it stood for. Would stand for, as it hadn’t been founded yet.
The good news was that there was no one to come after him, because he wouldn’t have wanted to fall foul fo early Torchwood. The Archives held some pretty brutal stories, and humans were as likely to be the victims of their wrath as aliens were. But without Torchwood, he was almost certainly stuck.
He pushed that to the back of his mind and wove his way through to the office, knocking firmly on the door. It was opened by a short man with pinched features who looked him up and down and tapped his pipe against the doorframe. “You’ll be the Marquis’s man? Thought he wasn’t sending you till this afternoon - you had a fall or something?”
“A brief argument with a cart,” Ianto agreed. “It won, which should teach me a lesson. My fault.”
“Certainly was, sonny. Come on in.” He waved Ianto in and shut the door, but didn’t offer him a seat. “You’ll know Mr Carmichael?”
“Erm, no. New today.” He looked at his grimy hands and held them out. “I’d offer you my hand, but I’m a little the worse for wear at the moment. How do you do?”
“How do you do,” Carmichael responded. He was a taller man, better dressed and better fed than any of the other men Ianto had seen so far. His accent was refined and elegant, and his hair flopped in what was surely the fashion of the day. “I appreciate it, I can’t risk the plans getting damaged, you see.”
“Of course.” Ianto folded his hands behind his back and tried not to cough at the smoky atmosphere. “What was it you wanted me to deliver?”
“You’re early, so you’ll have to wait. Jones is just doing a final tally of the men on the site for the day. For the moment, you can make yourself useful by holding this light for me.” Ianto did as he was told and took the lamp to hold it over Carmichael’s notes. “What did you say your name was?” the architect asked absently.
“I didn’t, but it’s Ianto, sir. Ianto Jones.”
“Another Jones,” he sighed. “Your people have less originality than the Fenians. Can’t be helped, I suppose - it’s all a result of inbreeding.”
Ianto raised his eyebrows and stayed silent on the matter. Londoners opininons of Wales hadn’t much improved over the years, but they were at least more tactful about it.
He stood like that for half an hour or so, getting armache, until a scrawny young man dragged the door open and limped into the room. “Got the figures for you, Mr Watts. Is this the Marquis’s man?”
“It is, Jones.” He took the heavy ledger book from him, gave it a cursory look and handed it over to Ianto. “You can take that straight up to the Marquis at the castle. at least you being this early means that we can pay the men on time, for once.”
“I’ll get it up there as fast as I can,” Ianto assured him.
“You’ll get it faster than that.” Mr Watts pointed his pipe at Ianto. “And get the money back down here sooner than possible.”
“Yes, sir.” He ducked out of the still-open door, paused to get his bearings and set out up the rutted track that led towards the centre of the town and, somewhere on the other side of the smoke and fumes, the newly rennovated castle.
****
Cardiff bore little resemblance to the city he knew. One long street led up from the hustle and bustle and industry of the docks, through the wetlands to the town itself. Development was starting all along the road, but Cardiff was still small, barely developed. The castle towered above the town, surrounded by the newly-cut sandstone walls. The main gate was open and a steady stream of people were coming in and out, so Ianto tugged his fringe, and ducked through, keeping his head down as much as he could. Sooner or later, someone was going to realise that he wasn’t from around here, and the closer he got to people who knew the fashions of the day the more likely it was to happen.
A sallow youth looked him up and down disdainfully and raised his eyebrows pointedly at Ianto’s hair. “Where’s your hat?”
“Had an accident with a cart,” he explained. “I think it’s probably in the dock.”
The youth harrumphed and shook his head. “You want to be more careful down there. What’s your business, anyway?”
Ianto held the ledger up and waved it vaguely. “Reports from the dock for the Marquis. Mr Watts sent me with it.”
“You’re early. We weren’t expecting it until this afternoon. Be quick with it, he’s very busy.”
He nodded and strode as fast as he could in the direction that the youth had gestured, then hesitated. A maid emerged from the kitchens below the new house and pointed him in the right direction, and he bounded up the stairs into the library, where a handsome man in early middle aged was sifting through a mountain of papers. He looked up when Ianto entered, took one look at the state of him and laughed. “Good heavens, boy. What happened to you?” he asked, with a soft Edinburgh accent to his well-heeled tones.
“A cart,” Ianto said mildly, amused by now by the story. “We had an argument, it won, and my hat lost.”
“I can see that. Has Farnleigh sent you?”
“Watts, Sir. With the figures.” He held the ledger out and the Marquess took it with a sigh. “Sorry, Sir.”
“And so you should be.” He looked over them and shook his head. “Alright, my opportunistic little friend, come back in an hour and I’ll give you the docket. If you don’t come back, you don’t get paid.”
“... Sir?”
“I recognise all my workers, and you are not one of them.” He gave Ianto a stern look, but it was ruined by the sparkle in his eyes. “So you’re new - I don’t mind, I appreciate a man who can see opportunity and get the job done. What’s your name?”
“Ianto Jones, Sir.”
“Well, Ianto Jones, keep you nose clean and you’ll go far.” He flipped the ledger open and started work, dismissing Ianto with, “Now go and find yourself a hat, and avoid carts if you possibly can.”
****
The West Bute Dock opened to much fanfare and celebration in October 1839, and the teams who’d built it got a tidy bonus from the Marquess before they packed up and shipped out to work on railways, canals and roads across the country. Ianto waved Andrew off and watched the crowds dispersing back up to the town, or to the building works that were springing up faster and faster around them. The Marquess raised one eyebrow at Ianto and went back to ignoring him, as he had for much of the last two years, and Ianto smiled to himself, settling his hands deeper into the pockets of his thick coat.
Winter was settling in, and with the dock project complete Ianto needed to find something new, or find somewhere new. He had a small bonus, like the rest of them, enough to keep him over the winter if he chose to stay in his current lodgings, or enough to get him to London or further, to Paris or Amsterdam. What he lacked was direction, and that was nothing new.
A stately gentleman in a top hat, leaning on a cane and the arm of his daughter, was making his way past Ianto towards a waiting carriage. Ianto stepped back to let him pass, but turned back when an idea formed. “Mr Jenkins, sir?”
“Yes? Aren’t you the Marquess’s clerk?”
“One of them, sir,” he confirmed. “Or I was. I heard that you were looking for an assistant in your shop.”
“Well I am, but I don’t know that I need a clerk’s skills, and I don’t have time to train you.” He looked Ianto up and down. “Can you sew, boy?”
He smiled slowly. “My father was a master tailor, sir. I learned at his knee.”
“Well that’s different.” The old tailor looked at his daughter, who smiled back. “Be there on Monday at 8am sharp. I’ll give you a week’s trial - unpaid, mind - and we’ll see how you do.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll see you on Monday.” He stepped back again and tipped his hat to them. “Goodnight Mr Jenkins, Miss Jenkins.”
“Goodnight,” she returned his smile, “Mr Jones.”
