And I don't know where to look;

ja: a visit to pemberley

2008-03-31T18:23:29Z

Title: A Visit to Pemberley
Rating: PG
Word Count: 5033
Summary: Jane Austen finds herself in Pemberley, and must confront characters of her own creation to learn something of herself.
A/N: God, that's a terrible summary. This is an academic piece, at heart, but I decided to post it so that others could read and see if they liked it. Spoilers for Pride & Prejudice, if you could call it that.

No event of any importance takes place on a remarkable day.

Novels would have one believe that every deciding day in a young hero or heroine's life is marked by either endlessly clear skies and brilliant sunshine or skies thick with dark clouds and rain lashing down upon dismal moors. This is simply not the case. Men and women in stories, one will find, are much the same as men and women in ordinary life. Their lives start, and unfortunately end, like any other. What is extraordinary about them then, what makes people wish to read those stories over and over rather than the diaries of their neighbors, is what they do, not where they do it.

With that in mind, it will sufficient then to say that one Miss Jane Austen of ... was on this very unremarkable day travelling from one place to another by carriage. The unremarkable day, however, turned to night and a light drizzle set in just after the sun disappeared under the horizon. The rain was not strong enough to keep Miss Austen from dozing as her carriage lumbered along, but it was enough to muddy the road and cause the wheels to slip, the horses to rear and the carriage to overturn itself. The driver, mercifully, rose again to his feet, mostly unharmed, but upon examining the carriage, he found his passenger unconscious and bleeding from the head. What else could he do? Fearing the worst, and knowing that their destination was only a few miles away, the driver settled Miss Austen as well as he could, protected from the rain, unhitched one of the horses, and left her to ride, as quickly as he could, to the nearest surgeon.

The purpose of beginning a story in such a way, dear reader, is not to cause you pain. But the suddenness of the events must be communicated to you in the same way that they confronted Miss Austen if you are to understand her confusion. She awoke not to the greeting of her sister Cassandra who would have stayed up for her arrival, nor even to the steady clap of hooves upon a wet road as the carriage continued along its path. In fact, she woke up in a bed not her own, and with the most familiar pair of dark brown eyes looking down upon her that she had ever not seen in her life.

"You're awake," the woman murmured, smiling, and Miss Austen could only dumbly agree. "We were quite worried about you," the woman continued. "Your carriage overturned, it seemed, but your driver and any passengers you travelled with were no where to be found. We couldn't simply leave you there, of course, so Mr. Darcy carried you into our carriage, and we brought you home with us. Your friends and family must be terribly worried for you. Tell me where we should send a letter to. Or, if your home is close, I'm sure Mr. Darcy would be happy to ride out to tell your loved ones that you're safe."

"Austen," Jane managed, whatever wit she may have once possessed having quite distressing deserted her, either from the blow to her head or the mention of that name. She could not tell which. "Miss Jane Austen. I was returning home to Chawton."

"Chawton! Well, that's certainly quite a distance. And a letter will travel faster than you, given your condition. You're much better than you were only a few hours ago, but there's no reason to risk sending you off so many miles when you can gather your strength here. Chawton. What ever brought you so far north?"

"I was in London," Jane replied, unable to answer with anything but the truth. Such is the only option available to honest people caught unawares.

"London," the woman repeated with a serious frown. "You're in Derbyshire now," she continued, the frown disappearing as she stood from where she had sat upon Jane's bed. Perhaps she attributed Jane's answer to the injury to her head. "And there's no finer place for you than here at Pemberley. I hold a strong bias, of course. Do you think you could eat? I'll have someone send up some soup, at the least."

Pemberley. Derbyshire. Darcy. Jane's mind reeled, but she gathered enough of her senses to speak before the woman left the room. "Please," she called, and those dark eyes turned once again in her direction. Jane offered the woman a slight smile. "You have seen to my well-being in a most Christian and charitable manner, and I thank you sincerely. But you have neglected me in one thing: I do not know the name of the woman who has so cared for me."

Concerned for only a moment that she had somehow failed in her duties, the woman smiled brightly and quite proudly replied: "Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy. Now, please return to resting Miss Austen. That should be your only care."

----

When a guest is told to be at ease within a home not their own -- especially a home belonging to people she has less than a passing acquaintance with -- the natural inclination of any polite person is to immediately be ill at ease. A desire to make oneself useful or as little intrusive as possible arises which can only be quelled by gracious smiles and compliments from one's hosts, telling her that she is a welcome addition to the family circle in the truest sense, or immediate removal from the house. Jane, of course, though far more intimately familiar with the Darcys than they were with her, was a polite person and immediately felt the need to remove herself at the very least from the bed so kindly given her. Standing up however proved impossible as a great wave of dizziness and nausea broke upon her when she attempted to set feet to floor. Not entirely well before her journey, Jane decided her only recourse was indeed to rest in bed and concentrate on her recovery.

A woman with a mind like Jane's could not hope to find true peace for very long. Mrs. Darcy -- how strange to think it -- had left a small selection of books at her bedside, but Jane's mind was full enough as it was.

She was in Pemberley. How on earth was such a thing possible? Perhaps she had stumbled upon a great vein of happy coincidence within the very hills of England. Perhaps there simply was an estate named Pemberley in Derbyshire occupied by the Darcy family, and, having read their names in a newspaper or something of the like, Jane's mind had stored away the names and they had simply slipped out as she had been writing her draft. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. But the physical similarities made her pause to accept that explanation. She was no artist and had never sketched a likeness of her characters, but within her mind they lived freely. She could see the intelligent sparkle to Elizabeth Bennet's dark eyes, the somber dignity of Mr. Darcy, the sweet smile of Jane and the laughing looks of Mr. Bingley. They were all as familiar to her as her own family.

And that woman -- that Elizabeth Darcy -- was her Elizabeth. The surety of her feelings in the matter outweighed the necessary reason of her mind. But what did all this mean? If this was indeed Derbyshire, how on earth did she arrive here? How were her characters, her creations, living breathing people before her? And how was she to return home?

More than anything, the last question distressed her. Though not overly sentimental, Jane had always enjoyed the blessing of being born into a large, happy, intelligent and lively family. Her dear sister Cassandra, especially, stayed always within her heart. Had she fallen into the world of the Darcys, the Bennets and the Bingleys, or had they fallen into hers? The former seemed more likely -- if anything about this situation was in any way 'likely' -- and for their sakes, indeed, Jane hoped the former was true. How dreadful for the psyches of her dearly beloved creations to discover that they were not in fact created by a loving God, but by a simple spinster of a woman who hoped to ease her family's financial strife. Some motherly nature, hidden deep within Jane and long unused, refused to allow such a thing to pass. She could not, under any circumstances, reveal to them what she believed to be true. Besides, if she was in the world of the Darcys, they would simply decide that their houseguest was more deeply and seriously affected by the blow to the head than they had previously conceived, and that she should be sent away to nurses with more skill in such areas. No, she could not tell them. But this left Jane in a most distressing, dismal position, and completely physically unable to do anything about it. How was she to discover what had happened to her, and how to remedy the situation, if she could not speak and move freely?

----

A stern-faced Mr. Darcy visited her later in the afternoon. Jane knew with certainty that the way he looked down his nose at her was not a personal attack, but more a simple issue of perspective. Still, his presence did nothing to settle the nervous feeling bubbling in her stomach at the thought that yes, yes she was indeed at Pemberley, and yes, yes she was indeed encroaching upon Mr. Darcy's hospitality. He did assure her that a letter had been sent to Chawton, although Jane had to wonder about the success of such an errand give the interesting situation she was in. It did help to know that -- if there was some chance that this was reality -- if there was any way out of the house, attempts were being made to help her.

No return letter was seen for several days. No one save Jane seemed to notice however, as even more guests demanded the attention of her hosts. The Bingleys arrived when Jane could only take a few paces about her room without feeling ill, and when Mrs. Bingley -- that Jane -- heard of the poor woman that her sister and brother-in-law had rescued, she immediately volunteered herself to help in the recovery. Elizabeth -- for Jane could not call her Mrs. Darcy, not in her mind which remained securely her own -- assured her that Mrs. Bingley was a far better nurse than she, and she was positive that Jane would flourish under her care. Jane, of course, knew this to be the truth, and was grateful for the hours Mrs. Bingley would spend by her bedside, reading to her, helping her exercise, talking of her home and family. The conversation was the most helpful, in all events. Thoughts of her home kept Jane hopeful.

A week passed, and still no word was heard from Chawton. By that time, Jane was able to join the two families at dinner, and though her wit and charm were not at their most effervescent, she managed to amuse herself and the others quite well. She knew them, of course-- knew their likes and dislikes, what would appeal to their tempers and what subjects to eschew. She made herself a most welcome addition to the table, and after one night Georgiana seemed to take just as much of a fancy to her as she had to her own sister-in-law.

Another week passed to find Jane nearly fully recovered. Still no word was heard from Chawton, and, supposing that the letter had gone astray, Jane was instructed to write her own note to her family. Jane took to her task with sincerity, but knew it would be to no avail. By luck, she still had all her belongings with her, things the Darcys had rescued from her carriage along with her person. She had money enough to travel, at the very least, once her stay at Pemberley came to an end. The knowledge that she was no waif-- no wayward governess attempting to climb the social ladder by attaching herself to wealthy families-- seemed to set Mr. Darcy at a certain ease. Her family, completely unknown to him, were of course not worthy of his notice, but that did not stop him from being a charitable host. If it had, his wife would certainly have had something to say to him in that regard. But, secure in the knowledge that Jane’s stay was only temporary, Darcy seemed more inclined to like her than he would in normal circumstances, and for that Jane was excessively grateful.

The fact that Jane did not seem to take to the youngest Bingley might have had some sway in Mr. Darcy’s thoughts on her. Eliza Bingley was precious, of course, as all young children are, with large blue eyes, curls of fair hair and a charming laugh that truly did sound like music. It was only fitting of course that two generous, loving and beautiful people such as Charles and Jane Bingley would have such a child, who everyone loved just as dearly as they loved her parents. But Jane could not be endeared to Eliza’s dimpled smiles and rosy cheeks. It wasn’t that she didn’t like the child. It was impossible not to fancy one so like her parents, so easy in her manners and more disposed to babble in soft tones than to scream and cry unpleasantly. But the creation of Jane Bennet had been something of an authorial whim. Authors do not name certain characters after themselves by chance, you see. Those who write novels, especially, are clever people, never able to skip slipping a clever phrase or subtle jab into their narratives. Naming Jane after herself had been a deliberate move, as had creating her, in form, personality and manner, as far from Jane Austen herself had been.

Jane Bennet was a perfect daughter. Jane Austen, though she tried, could never satisfy her mother quite as she might have wished. While Jane Bennet spent her hours sewing, riding and occasionally practicing music, Jane Austen spent her hours reading and writing. Jane Bennet had a kind and true thing to say of everyone she met. Jane Austen had a sharp and true thing to say of everyone she met. Jane Bennet was beautiful, fair and attracted every appreciative eye. Jane Austen was average, small-lipped and dark-haired, fading into the background with little complaint. Most importantly, Jane Bennet married. Jane Austen, now aged forty, had not and certainly never would. It had been a conscious decision on Jane Austen’s part to create Jane Bennet so unlike herself, a constant barb of sorts with which to torment herself. Jane Bennet, now Bingley, could be happy because she had done what was expected of her. Jane Austen never could, because she had chosen not to.

And now Jane found herself faced with another way in which herself and Jane Bingley were complete opposites. Jane Bingley was a mother. Jane Austen was not. She could not look at the child without feeling a pang in her heart, feeling an emptiness of what might have been but what was stretched out around her, leaving her terribly, terribly alone. She had no Cassandra to cling to here, only the living breathing example of what she would never, ever be.

----

Time passed uneventfully, but certainly not slowly. As her health improved, Jane found her days filled with more and more to strike her fancy. She had to compliment herself on the life she had secured -- or had in part secured -- for Elizabeth. Pemberley was everything her imagination had dreamed it to be. The building itself was beautifully laid out and tastefully decorated, the windows set just so to offer exquisite views that lured mind from body. The paintings were compelling in their own ways, always inviting a second, third, fourth viewing. The library was expansive, and Jane felt sure that she could lose herself for whole days in those volumes if she would just be given the chance. Oh, but her hosts were far too good to let her remain so solitary for long. The grounds, of course, were just as gorgeous, sprawling and perfectly suited to the temperaments of Elizabeth and her husband as Jane had written them. Elizabeth was a great walker, as any who have read that novel would know, and while she spent much of her walks in solitary thought, she always saved a portion of her daily rounds for Jane’s company. Mrs. Bingley, at such an hour, was usually indoors seeing to Eliza’s nap, and the gentlemen occupied their time with sport much more vigorous than walking. So the two women entertained themselves, and with such lively minds, such a task was both easy and enjoyable.

Their fondness and affection for each other grew quite quickly. Truthfully, it should be said that Elizabeth’s affection for Jane grew quickly, as Jane was already quite endeared to her first character. And such a strong character she was, with marked opinions and a personality few could truly stand against without being affected. Though a woman of strong feelings, Elizabeth found herself often without someone at Pemberley with which to share them. Georgiana was darling to her, but young and still learning, an inappropriate confidante. Mr. Darcy of course should have been the natural choice, but while a wife’s heart may belong to her husband, her mind certainly does not. Certain thoughts always remain hidden to him, and for his own good. Elizabeth had the benefit of seeing her sister as often as travel allowed, but Mrs. Bingley’s disposition was such that no negative statement was allowed to go unanswered by a positive rebuttal. Sometimes, a woman simply needs someone to share in her troubles and Jane -- no stranger to troubles of any sort -- was Elizabeth’s perfect companion for that.

“Sometimes,” she said one afternoon as the shadows grew longer and their winding ramble turned homewards. “I wonder if this is true happiness.”

There was a note of disappointment in her voice that alarmed Jane. “You are not happy?” she asked.

“Oh, I am happy,” Elizabeth confirmed, giving her new-found friend a smile. “I have a husband I could not be fonder of, an estate to be proud of, more money than I could have dreamed of, sisters settled comfortably and I am free to chose my own society. I am… content.”

“Content?” Jane echoed with a soft laugh. “My dear, to be content and to be happy are two different things.”

“So I have discovered,” she replied quietly.

“Elizabeth.” Concern for her friend, but more than that, concern for this woman she had created, this creature she had fashioned from pen and paper and had seen grow before her eyes made Jane start and take her arm. “Is not all that you have said true? Are you not well settled, well loved, with every thing you could wish for?”

Elizabeth’s smile waned, and a wistful sigh escaped her. “Sometimes I just feel as if-- as if the story of my life is over. Which is quite a silly thought,” she commented with forced laughter. “I know. I am still so young. I still have so much life ahead of me. But I cannot help but feel as if the greatest part of my story is behind me, and that all that is left for me is… some sad sort of epilogue and then empty pages. Pages never to be filled but placed at the end of a book to give the illusion of something more. But there’s simply nothing there.”

Jane was silent. For once in her life, words completely abandoned her, except in the form of thoughts coursing through her mind. What have I done? she asked herself. Is this really my doing? Of course it is. I made her, I gave her voice, I created this world, I gave her to this man and then left her and her family with only a few paragraphs for the decades that should follow. There is no one to blame for this unhappiness but me. And no one to make it right but me.

Elizabeth, interpreting her friend’s silence as pure shock, laughed again to keep the quiet from becoming too unsettling. “I know I am being quite silly,” she said. “You may chide me as much as you wish. Do not hold that tongue of yours to spare my feelings. I know how sharp it is, and I shall face it with a smile knowing whatever you have to tell me is true.” So sure was she of Jane’s judgment, that such words flew from her lips without any hesitation, and her eyes had something of their familiar sparkle as she looked to her friend, her authoress.

I feel it too, she wanted to say. I feel it every day, only I have no great story recorded for me. I only have your stories. I had no romance. Tom was a silly crush; we both knew that. Harris was an even sillier affair. I still blush to think of it. My one chance of happiness-- of contentment, perhaps-- left this world after only a few days’ acquaintance. That is nothing to build a romance upon. A very sad romance, perhaps, and very sad romances make for very sad women. No, I only have you, and Jane, Elinor, Marianne, Fanny, Catherine, Emma and Harriet. These are my lives. And I have used you all terribly.

But every author, no matter how it pains her, knows how to edit herself.

“Surely you are being carried away by a mood,” Jane replied. “There is much to your life here that has yet to be lived. You are lady to a great estate with much to give. So many could benefit from your generosity. And a match must still be made for Georgiana. Your family grows around you! And you have much to fill your hours. You can read to your heart’s content, and in that I envy you. And you could write!”

Here Elizabeth inserted a soft laugh. “I am no good at verses, only limericks.”

“Prose, then.”

“I have patience only to read such tracts in several sittings. To write one would be well beyond me.”

“Something lighter then. A novel.”

She laughed again, but there was no cruelty in it. Jane, in her caution, had not told anyone that she was a writer of novels herself. “Then I would be trading in my lack of story for someone else’s story.”

Jane was silenced, once again, by the unintended barb.

“No,” Elizabeth continued, not noticing the change in her companion’s countenance. “You are right. I must find my own happiness in my contentment. It is selfish to wish for more when I have so much. And now that we are back to the house, I believe I shall try to make much of myself, as you have so wisely suggested, by attempting to sew a little something for my niece. She is still too young to notice any uneven stitches.”

----

A final visit from the doctor was all that was needed to ensure that yes, Jane would be leaving their company soon enough. Though pleased that their newly developed acquaintance had recovered nearly completely, none at Pemberley were all too pleased to see her go. But some events in life are necessities, no matter how much they pain us, and Jane knew that should could not hide forever in the house of her creation. She had to leave her friends’ -- her children’s -- sides and see what there was for her in Chawton, if anything. The thought of an empty home frightened her more than she could say, but Jane was a women well-trained in putting on a brave face, and none of the company suspected for a moment that her feelings on leaving were bittersweet but happy.

It was decided that Jane should ride in a hired carriage post straight to Chawton. Though such a journey was within her financial bounds (though, truthfully, it pressed at the bounds just to see how far they could stretch), Mr. Darcy provided more than half the price of fare as a gift of sorts. It was done quietly, so all Jane could do was smile gratefully, communicating with her eyes how she valued his thoughtfulness, and Mr. Darcy nodded in reply. Jane suspected that he was in high spirits, though she could not ascertain the reason.

But the reason revealed itself the afternoon before Jane’s departure, as secret reasons so often do unravel themselves just before a chapter’s end. Elizabeth announced that she was with child. Pemberley swelled with joy at the news, and smiles pulled at every face until muscles ached from cheer and laughter. Oh, such warmth does a new life bring into this world even before it has begun.

Long after supper, when the spirits of all had been allowed several hours to bask in the glow of such news, the ladies noted that it was time for them to rest, all for their various reasons.

Elizabeth accompanied Jane to her room, least happy of all to see her go. “I hope to join you at breakfast,” she said, “But you leave so early and I am quite worn out. In case I do not rise to bid you farewell, let me do so now.”

Stopping in front of Jane’s room, Elizabeth kissed her like a sister and held her hands. “You must write to me,” she said. “When I reach the time of my confinement, I shall be nearly mad I’m sure from lack of exercise and excitement. And I will write to you, dear Jane, and show you how wrong I was, how much of my story there is yet to be written.”

“Is this your story?” Jane asked, in an arch, playful manner that was familiar to them and free from malice. “Or the beginning of another?”

“Is that not the way of the world?” she replied. “One story bleeds into another. There are no endings or beginnings. Those are only the illusions of our minds.”

Smiling, she leaned in again to embrace Jane and kiss her cheek. “I am so happy,” she whispered, and the sincerity, the earnest, genuine truth of emotion in her words made Jane’s heart soar. “Sleep well, dear Jane,” she wished, walking slowly down the corridor. “And know that the story of our friendship could never end, not even here.”

With light heart and head, Jane stepped into the room that had been hers these last three weeks. She dressed for bed quickly, but sleep did not come to her for some time. By some stroke of bad luck, the dizzy feeling of love and happiness had transformed itself into a terrible headache that plagued Jane for several hours.

But sleep, eventually, did take her.

----

“Jane. Oh, dear Jane, please wake up,” she sighed. The voice was familiar, but not Elizabeth’s. Not Jane Bingley’s either, nor Georgiana.

Jane’s eyes fluttered open, and for a moment she could not focus. Light flooded into the room from a nearby window, nearly blinding her with its brilliance. A shape was before her, seemed to be sitting on the bed. A bed, she noted, that was much smaller than the one at Pemberley.

“Oh, Jane, you’re awake!”

“Cassandra?” Her mouth felt dry, the name creaked out. But soon the face and form of her sister became clear. “What happened?”

“There was an accident with your carriage,” her sister explained, though Jane knew that full well. “You were nearly home when it happened, so Mr. Parsons -- the driver -- he took one of the horses and rode ahead to fetch help. They brought you home, but you have been unconscious for the whole night and half the day.”

“A night and a day?” Jane repeated. “That can’t be right.” Three weeks she had spent at Pemberley.

“Oh, but it is. I’ve been at your side nearly the whole time. I should fetch the doctor again.” And with that, her sister left the room, leaving Jane blinking, her mind reeling once again.

She was examined with silence on her part, broken only by obligatory answers. The doctor told her nothing that she did not already know. A concussion of the brain. Extensive rest was prescribed, for at least three weeks. Cassandra moaned in an affectionate way at having to wait on her sister for so long a period of time, but Jane could not focus her thoughts to trade wits with her sister. This, too, was attributed to the concussion, as was, upon Jane’s questioning, any strange dreams she might have experienced while asleep.

“There is much we do not know of the human mind,” the doctor said. “Much we may never know. Do not trouble yourself over those dreams, ma’am. They have a meaning, I am sure, but it could never be known to us, and worrying over them will only tire you. And you need to rest.”

“Yes, rest,” Cassandra agreed. “Perhaps we should leave your patient to just that.”

They left the room, and Jane was once again in bed alone with her thoughts.

All a dream, she thought to herself. But such a dream.

She sat and thought, thought of what she had felt and experienced, of words shared and hearts opened. One story bled into another, yes. Elizabeth’s was tied to Darcy’s, to Bingley’s, to Georgiana’s, to all her sisters’. Elizabeth’s story was tied to Jane, and Jane to hers. Jane had not abandoned her to empty pages but only given her a start. She had to continue her story as she saw fit, never finishing, and Jane had to do the same with her own life.

And so, despite doctor’s orders, Jane settled her writing desk across her lap and one again took up her pen.

tw: late nights and borrowed scotch

2008-01-28T20:07:26Z

Title: Late Nights and Borrowed Scotch
Pairing: None, really. Or Jack/Ianto, Jack/Gwen and Jack/Ianto/Gwen if you want to squint.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1430
Spoilers: This is set somewhere in the nebulous region of time between series 1 and series 2. Nothing specific from series 1 is mentioned, and series 2 isn't mentioned at all.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. This is just for fun.
Summary: Gwen and Ianto enjoy a little downtime with Jack's alcohol in Jack's office. Oddly enough, the subject of Jack comes up.
A/N: I haven't written fic in a very long time, so any comments or constructive criticisms are greatly appreciated. No, really.

It was a tradition that Ianto and Jack had developed. It was perfect for those quiet nights when everyone else had gone home, when the only sounds were the familiar ones of the Hub – machines buzzing, computers scanning, Myfanwy softly cawing. It was a good way to end those trying days of fighting aliens or saving the world, days that should have ended in the warm comfort of home or in the arms of a loved one (someone) but didn’t. It was a tradition that Gwen and Ianto picked up after a week of Jack being gone, two days after she had moved herself into Jack’s office without moving any of his things out, the first day they had saved the world from certain destruction without the aide of their illustrious and mysterious leader.

Gwen poured the scotch, and Ianto loosened his tie as he sat down with a sigh.

“Here’s to us,” Gwen said, passing Ianto his glass and lifting her own. “Scary alien buggers, naught. Torchwood, one.”

“Here’s hoping we’re just as lucky tomorrow,” Ianto returned, clinking glasses with her and taking a healthy sip.

“It’s not luck.” Gwen took her own sip, replying confidently, more accustomed and understanding of Ianto’s dark and sometimes cutting humour now. “We’re a good team. We’ve got talent and experience, and we’re strong together.”

“And there’s four of us,” Ianto added. “Which is helpful when the alien has three arms.”

They kept chatting, lightly joking about the day’s exploits and what needed to be done the next day, carefully avoiding the subject that was foremost in everyone’s minds but slowly moving backwards. Each day it got easier. Each day they moved closer to being Team Torchwood, Torchwood 3, not Jack Harkness’ gang. If anything, now they were Gwen Cooper’s gang, but Gwen made a concerted effort to make everything about the team, the group, asking for everyone’s input and demanding everyone’s hard work. It was new. A little too new for anyone to judge whether it was better or worse than how it worked with Jack, but new enough that everyone needed to take some time settling into the new routine. Not mentioning Jack, not even giving themselves the chance to compare – that made it a little easier.

Ianto had no where to go, no one waiting for him, nothing at home but a very neatly made bed and perhaps some bad television before a restless night’s sleep, so it was no surprise that when Gwen poured another round, he accepted it without question. Gwen had a place to go, Rhys waiting for her, a life at home full of clutter and mess and things to do, but Ianto didn’t question her either when she took up her second glass. Or her third. He had something of a talent for not asking questions.

When she reached for the decanter, intent on a fourth round, Ianto laughingly grabbed it for her, pouring two fingers instead of three. Every little bit helped, he supposed.

“What do you think he’s up to right now?” she asked, leaning back languidly in the chair, eyes glossy.

“Probably getting sloshed as well and living through more entertaining stories,” Ianto replied, swallowing down the bitterness with another gulp of scotch.

“Do you really think so?”

Ianto had been staring at the golden liquid in his cup, and Gwen had seemed about ready to spin in her chair, so when he looked up and got caught in her wide-eyed gaze, he was a little unprepared and blinked in surprise. Then he recovered.

“I really think so, yes.”

“You don’t think he thinks of us at all?”

“No.” He winced after say so, so quickly and so firmly, and backpedaled. “Well, maybe you.”

“Me?” she echoed, laughing as she did and leaning forward onto the desk, probably for balance. “He’s not thinking of me. If anyone, he’s thinking of you.”

Ianto nearly snorted some very good alcohol through his nose and coughed. “Alright, Gwen, I think you’ve had a bit too much.”

“No! Seriously!” she exclaimed, looking at Ianto intently while pulling her glass out of his reach. “He fancies you like mad!”

“He fancies everyone,” Ianto countered.

“Well, yes,” she admitted with less energy.

While she was struggling to come up with a response to that, Ianto cut in with, “Besides, he adores you.”

“He does not!” she scoffed with all the volume of someone well into her cups. Two seconds after the denial was out, though, she had that look on her face that told Ianto she wished it were true, and please would he keep talking. She didn’t even have to say the hopeful and requisite ‘does he?’ out loud.

He sighed. “Honestly?”

She nodded.

“He adores you,” he repeated, leaning forward on the desk as well and setting his cup down. “You? Are a good leader. I’ll give you that. And you’re a good person, Gwen. But Torchwood isn’t made for good people. When you walked in here with those pizza boxes, you had absolutely nothing to recommend you for a position here. Shite. He should have just retconned you again and let you go.” She blinked at the severity of his words. “But he didn’t. Because he adores you. You have no reason to be here, but you are. Every day. He treats the rest of us like children, but when you have an idea, he’s all ears. He’s thinking of you.”

Leaning back, Ianto finished off what was left in his glass, waiting for some response from Gwen. But she just stared at him in that same wide-eyed way she had, which was both ridiculously annoying and amazingly endearing at the same time. Since it didn’t seem like he’d be getting an answer, he reached for the scotch.

And Gwen grabbed his wrist in a death grip. “You’re so full of it!”

He blinked, eyebrows rising to give her a dubious look, but no verbal prompting was necessary.

“He adores me, whatever,” she scoffed, nearly tipping over in her chair, which to be honest made Ianto feel a little dizzy and he blinked several times. “You’re the one he talks to.” Ianto started to laugh, and she thrust a finger in his face. “Shut it. You’re the one he lets in, if he lets any of us in. Yeah, he doesn’t say anything, but he prefers you. He fancies you. He wants you around, all the bloody time.”

“It’s just shagging,” Ianto countered, bewildered by everything Gwen was saying.

“Jack is just shagging,” Gwen replied, realizing that didn’t make sense after a moment’s consideration. “He has priorities… somewhere. But his main priority is always sex, always being flirty, always getting the attention. Yeah, it’s a front, we all know that. But he doesn’t actually follow through on anything with us. It’s a defense mechanism. It keeps us away. He uses it to pull you closer. You still get a bit of him that I’ll never get.”

He stared, slack-jawed, unable to process a reply, really. Gwen looked hurt almost, angry perhaps that Ianto seemingly didn’t realize what he had, whereas Ianto simply couldn’t believe that Gwen could want any other part of Jack than what she got. Silence reigned for whole minutes, their understanding of time somewhat skewed by the amount of alcohol they’d consumed. Slowly whatever anger Gwen had melted away to embarrassment, and any shock Ianto had fell away to an understanding of their rather awkward situation, sitting in Jack’s office, sloshed on his scotch, arguing over which of them he fancies more.

“Shame he’s not here right now,” he said dryly. “I think we’re almost pissed enough to agree to a threesome.”

Gwen blinked, and laughed. And just like that, in the sound of her laughter, all the tension and awkwardness faded away. Half in relief, Ianto joined her, chuckling gently as her hand slid from his wrist to slip into his.

“I think it’s time to go home,” she managed finally, squeezing his hand. “It’s been a long day. We’re tired.”

Ianto nodded in agreement, squeezing Gwen’s hand in return as he stood up. He grabbed the two glasses, leaving Gwen to put away the decanter. “I’ll call us a taxi,” he said.

“Oh right,” Gwen giggled. “So I can roll up to the flat at one in the morning, drunk and on the arm of a gorgeous bloke in a suit? Rhys’ll love that.”

“Just tell him I’m shagging the boss,” Ianto replied, spinning to walk backwards out of Jack’s office, shooting Gwen a playful grin. “He’ll definitely love that.”

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