invisible_lift (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
invisible_lift) wrote2008-02-29 05:45 pm
invisible_lift) wrote2008-02-29 05:45 pm
Entry tags:
To Hold Life in the Palm of Your Hand
Title: "To Hold Life in the Palm of Your Hand"
Disclaimer: Being a bloke who likes to slash pretty men doesn't make me RTD, I don't work for the BBC, and as much as I might like to, I don't own Jack or Ianto or any part of Torchwood. I do, however, order pizza under that name on principle.
Pairings: None
Rating: PG
Notes/Summary: Ianto and Jack encounter a past employee in need, but the clock is ticking. Can they find what she needs before it's too late? SPOILER WARNING FOR 2x03 - "To The Last Man"
Shameless Plug: This was my final stage (1.11) entry for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
writerinadrawer round one. Want to get in on this madness? Sign up for Round Two!
Ianto Jones leaned against the heavy fire door, shouldering it open. As days went, this one had been somewhere around an eight: no fatalities, no major injuries, no massive end-of-the-world scenarios, and he'd only ruined his shoes. It had the potential to edge toward an 8.5 if his evening bout of archival and admin went smoothly, and would definitely hit a 9 or so if Jack was feeling frisky afterward. It was Friday, so unless the Rift played up, or something landed in Bute Park, or something decided that the best way to make first contact with humanity was to burst out of the chest of a public official, he and Jack could even have a lie-in tomorrow morning. Maybe breakfast.
It was this line of thinking – or rather Ianto's attention to it rather than archive section 1-B (which he could walk, organize, and catalog in his sleep, thank you very much) – that kept him from noticing the woman in his path until they collided. Files cascaded to the ground in a heavy paper avalanche as he stumbled back, apologizing out of habit.
She was smaller than him, maybe about his age, and equally surprised. She was also very clearly dead, but well-preserved overall. She appeared to be wearing some of the spare clothing Gwen kept in her locker.
"You're not Lydia," she blurted, clutching an irregularly shaped object to her chest. Her voice was serious and authoritative, and her accent clear.
"No, I'm not. My name is Ianto. Ianto Jones." He knelt down to straighten the fallen files, keeping his eyes fixed on her while he massed them into a neat stack and placed them on a library cart. "And you're Harriet Derbyshire."
"How do you know my name?"
"I know you for same reason I know that the Chalrak field generator you're trying to activate hasn't worked since 1967," he said with a faint smile and extended his hand as if to shake. "Not that you'll need it. I don't mean you any harm."
"1967," she said, her perplexity suddenly plain. "When am I?"
"Ah. Now that's a bit of a long story."
# # #
For a dead woman, Harriet Derbyshire could certainly put back the alcohol. Jack poured what he was fairly certain was her fifth fingerful of Scotch whisky and slid it across the desk. It didn't seem to be affecting her, but simply having a drink in hand seemed to calm her down.
"You'll have to forgive me," she said as she swirled the amber liquid in her glass. "I'm still not feeling settled. I keep worrying about paradoxes and forgetting I'm contemporaneous."
"Happens to the best of us," Jack said with a shrug and poured himself another. Ianto stood behind him, still nursing his first.
"I take it you have my personal effects stored away." It was an accusation, though her voice remained cooly professional.
"We do," Ianto replied. "The overall bulk – day-to-day household items and the like – is stored off-site. However, things like papers, photographs, and so on are sometimes kept in the archive. The policy has varied somewhat over the years."
"So you have my journal?"
Ianto's brow furrowed. "I don't remember any record of a written journal. I could double-check the catalogue if you like. I can assure you, though, that information of a personal nature is sealed according to Torchwood policy for a period of 100 years. Granted, there are exceptions in the case of – "
"It wasn't written," she interjected, cutting him off.
Ianto blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"It wasn't a written journal. It wouldn't have been kept with my papers. I kept it hidden in a small compartment in my flat. I couldn't risk it falling into civilian hands."
Ianto pursed his lips. "The records are far from complete – I don't imagine we ever did a full inventory – but it's possible someone might have mistaken it for a mundane item. It's reasonable that Dictaphone cylinders in your personal effects could have been overlooked, or –"
"No, Mr. Jones. There's no chance it could be mistaken for something ordinary. It was – " she sighed and looked at her drink. "It was a Delin box."
Jack flinched. "You took alien tech off-base?"
"Oh, don't look so scandalized," she told him sharply. "Gerald gave it to me my first week. He found out I didn't keep a journal because I hate to write about myself, and said that I could use it instead."
"Sorry," Ianto cut in. "What's a Delin box?"
"It's basically a diary," Jack explained. "Well, it is a diary. The only difference is that instead of writing things down and taping your snapshots to a page, it copies your memories. The Delin were like the Romans. They recorded everything they could, and believed that life ended only when it was forgotten."
"I never told Gerald where to look, and if Torchwood couldn't locate it…" She trailed off.
"Do you think you could find it now, Harriet?" Jack asked, a look of concern plainly written on his face.
"My journal? Why, I should think so. But why on earth would you want it?"
"Call it a hunch," Jack said, grabbing his coat. "Ianto, stay here and start combing through the database for everything we know about Delin boxes."
"Got it. Shall I call the rest of the team in?"
Jack shook his head. "Not just yet. I think the three of us can handle one little diary," he flashed a grin at Harriet, who didn't look entirely convinced.
"I suppose so." Ianto nodded and sat down at Jack's workstation, fingers already dancing on the keys.
Jack extended his elbow and winked. "Ms. Derbyshire? Care to accompany me to the surface?"
She cracked a smile. "But of course, Captain."
# # #
The house was at the end of a row of terraces in Roath. Judging by the plastic on some of the windows and various bits of equipment covered in tarpaulins, it was undergoing heavy renovations.
"What is it with 1918 and construction?" Jack muttered under his breath. "First St. Teilo's, now this."
"Pardon?"
"Nothing. Just remind me not to redecorate." Jack slid out of the SUV and started pushing buttons on his wrist strap. Harriet followed.
"There are trace signatures of alien tech throughout the building, but I can't pinpoint anything. We'll have to do a manual search." He gave the padlock securing the entrance only a passing glance before kicking the door in with a grunt.
The interior of the house was all plastic, lumber, and dust. It didn't seem promising.
"Anything look familiar?" He asked, leading her inside.
Harriet turned in a circle before ascending the plastic-covered stairs. "It was up here," she shouted down to him. He followed her up onto the landing and stopped dead.
The floorboards had been torn up and removed. All but the supporting walls in the upstairs had been ripped out, while new ones were being framed.
Harriet looked as if she'd been struck. Her eyes were wide, and her hands were balled into fists.
"Hey," he said, grabbing her arm. "It's okay. We'll find it. Come on. I think I saw a big skip out back."
# # #
Ianto re-read the information on the screen and then tapped his earpiece. "Jack?"
"Sort of busy, Ianto," Jack huffed. The dull clang of something heavy against metal rang out across the channel.
"Yes, well, I've got some more information on those Delin boxes you asked me to research."
"Alright," Jack said, catching his breath. "Shoot."
"Well, as you explained, the Delin had a flair for keeping records, and used boxes record an individual's memories. However, Delin boxes can accommodate any species with at least minimal psychic potential, including human beings."
"Okay. How about we skip right to the stuff I don't already know?"
"Of course," Ianto sighed. "It appears that what you didn't mention is the Delins' near-pathological terror of losing data. They were a bit like forward-thinking, slightly paranoid systems administrators. Delin boxes are designed with a fail-safe. If a box is damaged, it transfers all its data to the nearest appropriate receptacle or
carrier."
"Hang on. Are you saying –"
"That Harriet is her own back-up? That's exactly it. Everything she recorded, everything she left behind, all of it is walking around right now."
"So how do we fix it?"
"By having Harriet reactivate the box. When damaged, Delin boxes initiate a rapid self-repair cycle and then go into stand-by mode. However, this fail-safe only works while there's still energy left in the data. For your average Delin, this wasn't a problem. They recorded absolutely everything, so energy wasn't an issue. They also maintained a dedicated system for emergency data containment."
"But in this case?"
"Well, sooner or later she'll run down and all of her memories will be lost. Assuming that she used it daily after Gerald gave it to her, and based on the CCTV timestamps that show her coming out of her drawer, I give her until about 3 AM before the fail-safe is exhausted and the box resets."
"That's just over two hours from now."
There was a sudden cacophony of clangs and grunting in the channel, as if Jack were digging frantically to clear his way through a great deal of debris, followed by a string of swear words even Ianto was unprepared to fully translate.
"Jack?"
"It's not here. They tore out the floor and the walls. I think this might be a new skip I'm standing in, because I'm not getting any of the right sorts of energy signatures when I scan for alien tech. Any idea where the old one would have gone?"
"I'll find out. I'll also compile a list of workers assigned to this job by the contractor, as it's possible that one of them found it and took it home. Give me a few minutes. I can upload that information directly to the SUV."
"You're the best, Ianto. Keep me posted."
# # #
Harriet watched as Jack Harkness tore through the wood and plaster in the construction skip. He stopped for a moment, and appeared to be talking to himself. She was about to suggest that now was a bad time
to soliloquize when she remembered the strange earpieces he and Ianto wore. Were they telephones? It made sense they might be. In any case, while she hadn't heard the details of the conversation, she'd seen him tear through the scrap with a renewed vigor, and the look on his face as he glanced her way. Something was wrong.
Well, of course something was wrong. She was a walking corpse.
She watched Jack climb out of the huge metal bin, and did her best to help as he tried to brush the wood scraps and plaster dust off of his long grey coat.
"Any luck, Captain?" she asked, picking splinters out of the wool.
He shook his head. "No, but Ianto's working out some other possibilities. He's sending a list of addresses for the workers, and trying to track down where any additional scrap material might have gone."
She opened her mouth to speak, but no words would come. She felt curiously floaty, as if she might faint or be sick. She grabbed onto Jack's coat in a desperate attempt not to collapse.
"You okay?" Jack asked as he scrambled to keep her upright.
"Fine. Just a little weak is all."
"I'm taking you back to the Hub," he said, a look of deep concern creasing his brow. "You're overdoing it. You're burning through the fail-safe."
She shook her head, not comprehending.
"The Delin box brought you back to life, but its power is limited. It's in a sort of emergency state."
"Can it be restored?" Harriet asked, still clutching his coat.
"It can, but right now you need to rest."
"I've been resting for ninety years," she sighed as he led her back to the SUV.
"Yeah, well, all the same, I want to make sure you get another ninety more if you want them."
By the time he sat her down in the passenger seat, she hadn't even the strength to protest.
# # #
Ianto took some of Jack's blankets and made a nest on the sofa where Harriet could recline. She looked frail, as if the flame keeping her moving was on the verge of guttering out. He worried that perhaps his figures had been too optimistic. Still, Jack was doing everything he could. He might as well do the same.
He sat down next to Harriet and handed her a leather-bound volume.
"What's this?" she asked, looking up at him.
"It's one of Gerald's journals. I retrieved it for you from the archives. The records say you were quite dear to one another. I thought you might like to remember him."
"Isn't it a little early to be opening his things?"
"I didn't think he'd mind." Ianto shrugged.
She smiled and opened the cover.
He excused himself to Jack's office. From this vantage point it was hard to tell whether or not she was still present. She didn't breathe, strictly speaking, and she certainly didn't look alive. The only real sign that she was animate was when she lifted her hand to turn a page in Gerald's journal. Even so, Ianto could tell she was flagging. This was barely the woman who'd left with Jack, bursting with sass in spite of her pale, cool skin.
Harriett was dying.
# # #
Jack pushed the buttons on his wrist strap and swore under his breath. This was the last house on the list, and while Ianto'd figured out where the scrap might have been dumped, Jack knew he was running out
of time. He scanned the area again. There were residual traces of alien tech, but nothing definitive. It was possible that since the box was in stand-by mode, it would be difficult to track, but pacing up and down the street didn't seem to affect the readings as much as it should have. The numbers were all over the place. It didn't make any sense.
He sighed and leaned against the SUV. The box was missing or hidden, and there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it.
The grumble of an approaching engine jerked him to attention. Jack watched as a dull blue Reliant Robin pulled unsteadily to the curb, and a drunken man in his late thirties lurched out. The man muttered and hummed while he trudged toward the row of houses.
Discouraged, Jack wrenched open the door to the SUV. He was just about to start the engine when his wrist strap chirped. He gawked at the readings, then at the little blue car.
"Bingo," he whispered, and darted across the road.
# # #
The Hub's entry alarm sounded as the heavy cog door rolled back. Jack entered the Hub with no small amount of purpose. His eyes lit on the sofa where Ianto knelt next to Harriet's listless body. He was stroking her hair, one hand resting on hers.
"Is she –" Jack started to ask as he approached.
Ianto shook his head. "Not quite."
"Harriet?" Jack said, crouching down next to Ianto. "I've found it."
Her eyes opened. She reached out for the matte grey cube and Jack pressed it into her grasp, careful to make sure she didn't drop it. The surface of the box began to glow as it absorbed the data Harriet
had been carrying.
"Thank you," she whispered, and was gone.
# # #
They spent the better part of two hours preparing Harriet's body for its return to her drawer. Gwen's spare clothes were in a bag to be laundered or incinerated at her option, and the cube sat on Jack's desk, waiting for them when they entered. It seemed alive now, glimmering in the subterranean gloom.
Jack slumped down into his chair and picked up the box to study it, tilting it in his hand so that it caught the light between them. "So what would you do if you had one of these? Would you use it?"
"I don't know," Ianto replied as he took it from Jack's palm. He held it, pressing and turning it as if to try it out. "There's something special about a good blank book. This is less tactile. Less human, maybe."
"Yeah, I suppose so." Jack took a deep breath and leaned back. He seemed to be looking everywhere but at the other man.
Ianto sat against the edge of Jack's desk, set the cube down on the glossy wooden surface, and crossed his arms. "Top drawer, bedside table. Failing that, my messenger bag."
"What?" Jack shook his head, not comprehending.
"My diary. The old ones go in a box in my closet. And don't get any ideas about reading them early. I still haven't forgiven you for the last time." Ianto stood and took Jack by the hand. "Now come on. I want to get at least a little bit of sleep in before the sun comes up."
"I can think of better things to do than sleep," Jack said, getting up to follow.
"Yes, and I can think of at least seven fates worse than death if you wake me," Ianto retorted as they took their places on the invisible lift. "If you're patient, though, I'll make us breakfast. Something with syrup."
"Syrup I can work with."
Jack engaged the lift, and they rose into the early morning fog.
Disclaimer: Being a bloke who likes to slash pretty men doesn't make me RTD, I don't work for the BBC, and as much as I might like to, I don't own Jack or Ianto or any part of Torchwood. I do, however, order pizza under that name on principle.
Pairings: None
Rating: PG
Notes/Summary: Ianto and Jack encounter a past employee in need, but the clock is ticking. Can they find what she needs before it's too late? SPOILER WARNING FOR 2x03 - "To The Last Man"
Shameless Plug: This was my final stage (1.11) entry for
writerinadrawer round one. Want to get in on this madness? Sign up for Round Two!Ianto Jones leaned against the heavy fire door, shouldering it open. As days went, this one had been somewhere around an eight: no fatalities, no major injuries, no massive end-of-the-world scenarios, and he'd only ruined his shoes. It had the potential to edge toward an 8.5 if his evening bout of archival and admin went smoothly, and would definitely hit a 9 or so if Jack was feeling frisky afterward. It was Friday, so unless the Rift played up, or something landed in Bute Park, or something decided that the best way to make first contact with humanity was to burst out of the chest of a public official, he and Jack could even have a lie-in tomorrow morning. Maybe breakfast.
It was this line of thinking – or rather Ianto's attention to it rather than archive section 1-B (which he could walk, organize, and catalog in his sleep, thank you very much) – that kept him from noticing the woman in his path until they collided. Files cascaded to the ground in a heavy paper avalanche as he stumbled back, apologizing out of habit.
She was smaller than him, maybe about his age, and equally surprised. She was also very clearly dead, but well-preserved overall. She appeared to be wearing some of the spare clothing Gwen kept in her locker.
"You're not Lydia," she blurted, clutching an irregularly shaped object to her chest. Her voice was serious and authoritative, and her accent clear.
"No, I'm not. My name is Ianto. Ianto Jones." He knelt down to straighten the fallen files, keeping his eyes fixed on her while he massed them into a neat stack and placed them on a library cart. "And you're Harriet Derbyshire."
"How do you know my name?"
"I know you for same reason I know that the Chalrak field generator you're trying to activate hasn't worked since 1967," he said with a faint smile and extended his hand as if to shake. "Not that you'll need it. I don't mean you any harm."
"1967," she said, her perplexity suddenly plain. "When am I?"
"Ah. Now that's a bit of a long story."
# # #
For a dead woman, Harriet Derbyshire could certainly put back the alcohol. Jack poured what he was fairly certain was her fifth fingerful of Scotch whisky and slid it across the desk. It didn't seem to be affecting her, but simply having a drink in hand seemed to calm her down.
"You'll have to forgive me," she said as she swirled the amber liquid in her glass. "I'm still not feeling settled. I keep worrying about paradoxes and forgetting I'm contemporaneous."
"Happens to the best of us," Jack said with a shrug and poured himself another. Ianto stood behind him, still nursing his first.
"I take it you have my personal effects stored away." It was an accusation, though her voice remained cooly professional.
"We do," Ianto replied. "The overall bulk – day-to-day household items and the like – is stored off-site. However, things like papers, photographs, and so on are sometimes kept in the archive. The policy has varied somewhat over the years."
"So you have my journal?"
Ianto's brow furrowed. "I don't remember any record of a written journal. I could double-check the catalogue if you like. I can assure you, though, that information of a personal nature is sealed according to Torchwood policy for a period of 100 years. Granted, there are exceptions in the case of – "
"It wasn't written," she interjected, cutting him off.
Ianto blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"It wasn't a written journal. It wouldn't have been kept with my papers. I kept it hidden in a small compartment in my flat. I couldn't risk it falling into civilian hands."
Ianto pursed his lips. "The records are far from complete – I don't imagine we ever did a full inventory – but it's possible someone might have mistaken it for a mundane item. It's reasonable that Dictaphone cylinders in your personal effects could have been overlooked, or –"
"No, Mr. Jones. There's no chance it could be mistaken for something ordinary. It was – " she sighed and looked at her drink. "It was a Delin box."
Jack flinched. "You took alien tech off-base?"
"Oh, don't look so scandalized," she told him sharply. "Gerald gave it to me my first week. He found out I didn't keep a journal because I hate to write about myself, and said that I could use it instead."
"Sorry," Ianto cut in. "What's a Delin box?"
"It's basically a diary," Jack explained. "Well, it is a diary. The only difference is that instead of writing things down and taping your snapshots to a page, it copies your memories. The Delin were like the Romans. They recorded everything they could, and believed that life ended only when it was forgotten."
"I never told Gerald where to look, and if Torchwood couldn't locate it…" She trailed off.
"Do you think you could find it now, Harriet?" Jack asked, a look of concern plainly written on his face.
"My journal? Why, I should think so. But why on earth would you want it?"
"Call it a hunch," Jack said, grabbing his coat. "Ianto, stay here and start combing through the database for everything we know about Delin boxes."
"Got it. Shall I call the rest of the team in?"
Jack shook his head. "Not just yet. I think the three of us can handle one little diary," he flashed a grin at Harriet, who didn't look entirely convinced.
"I suppose so." Ianto nodded and sat down at Jack's workstation, fingers already dancing on the keys.
Jack extended his elbow and winked. "Ms. Derbyshire? Care to accompany me to the surface?"
She cracked a smile. "But of course, Captain."
# # #
The house was at the end of a row of terraces in Roath. Judging by the plastic on some of the windows and various bits of equipment covered in tarpaulins, it was undergoing heavy renovations.
"What is it with 1918 and construction?" Jack muttered under his breath. "First St. Teilo's, now this."
"Pardon?"
"Nothing. Just remind me not to redecorate." Jack slid out of the SUV and started pushing buttons on his wrist strap. Harriet followed.
"There are trace signatures of alien tech throughout the building, but I can't pinpoint anything. We'll have to do a manual search." He gave the padlock securing the entrance only a passing glance before kicking the door in with a grunt.
The interior of the house was all plastic, lumber, and dust. It didn't seem promising.
"Anything look familiar?" He asked, leading her inside.
Harriet turned in a circle before ascending the plastic-covered stairs. "It was up here," she shouted down to him. He followed her up onto the landing and stopped dead.
The floorboards had been torn up and removed. All but the supporting walls in the upstairs had been ripped out, while new ones were being framed.
Harriet looked as if she'd been struck. Her eyes were wide, and her hands were balled into fists.
"Hey," he said, grabbing her arm. "It's okay. We'll find it. Come on. I think I saw a big skip out back."
# # #
Ianto re-read the information on the screen and then tapped his earpiece. "Jack?"
"Sort of busy, Ianto," Jack huffed. The dull clang of something heavy against metal rang out across the channel.
"Yes, well, I've got some more information on those Delin boxes you asked me to research."
"Alright," Jack said, catching his breath. "Shoot."
"Well, as you explained, the Delin had a flair for keeping records, and used boxes record an individual's memories. However, Delin boxes can accommodate any species with at least minimal psychic potential, including human beings."
"Okay. How about we skip right to the stuff I don't already know?"
"Of course," Ianto sighed. "It appears that what you didn't mention is the Delins' near-pathological terror of losing data. They were a bit like forward-thinking, slightly paranoid systems administrators. Delin boxes are designed with a fail-safe. If a box is damaged, it transfers all its data to the nearest appropriate receptacle or
carrier."
"Hang on. Are you saying –"
"That Harriet is her own back-up? That's exactly it. Everything she recorded, everything she left behind, all of it is walking around right now."
"So how do we fix it?"
"By having Harriet reactivate the box. When damaged, Delin boxes initiate a rapid self-repair cycle and then go into stand-by mode. However, this fail-safe only works while there's still energy left in the data. For your average Delin, this wasn't a problem. They recorded absolutely everything, so energy wasn't an issue. They also maintained a dedicated system for emergency data containment."
"But in this case?"
"Well, sooner or later she'll run down and all of her memories will be lost. Assuming that she used it daily after Gerald gave it to her, and based on the CCTV timestamps that show her coming out of her drawer, I give her until about 3 AM before the fail-safe is exhausted and the box resets."
"That's just over two hours from now."
There was a sudden cacophony of clangs and grunting in the channel, as if Jack were digging frantically to clear his way through a great deal of debris, followed by a string of swear words even Ianto was unprepared to fully translate.
"Jack?"
"It's not here. They tore out the floor and the walls. I think this might be a new skip I'm standing in, because I'm not getting any of the right sorts of energy signatures when I scan for alien tech. Any idea where the old one would have gone?"
"I'll find out. I'll also compile a list of workers assigned to this job by the contractor, as it's possible that one of them found it and took it home. Give me a few minutes. I can upload that information directly to the SUV."
"You're the best, Ianto. Keep me posted."
# # #
Harriet watched as Jack Harkness tore through the wood and plaster in the construction skip. He stopped for a moment, and appeared to be talking to himself. She was about to suggest that now was a bad time
to soliloquize when she remembered the strange earpieces he and Ianto wore. Were they telephones? It made sense they might be. In any case, while she hadn't heard the details of the conversation, she'd seen him tear through the scrap with a renewed vigor, and the look on his face as he glanced her way. Something was wrong.
Well, of course something was wrong. She was a walking corpse.
She watched Jack climb out of the huge metal bin, and did her best to help as he tried to brush the wood scraps and plaster dust off of his long grey coat.
"Any luck, Captain?" she asked, picking splinters out of the wool.
He shook his head. "No, but Ianto's working out some other possibilities. He's sending a list of addresses for the workers, and trying to track down where any additional scrap material might have gone."
She opened her mouth to speak, but no words would come. She felt curiously floaty, as if she might faint or be sick. She grabbed onto Jack's coat in a desperate attempt not to collapse.
"You okay?" Jack asked as he scrambled to keep her upright.
"Fine. Just a little weak is all."
"I'm taking you back to the Hub," he said, a look of deep concern creasing his brow. "You're overdoing it. You're burning through the fail-safe."
She shook her head, not comprehending.
"The Delin box brought you back to life, but its power is limited. It's in a sort of emergency state."
"Can it be restored?" Harriet asked, still clutching his coat.
"It can, but right now you need to rest."
"I've been resting for ninety years," she sighed as he led her back to the SUV.
"Yeah, well, all the same, I want to make sure you get another ninety more if you want them."
By the time he sat her down in the passenger seat, she hadn't even the strength to protest.
# # #
Ianto took some of Jack's blankets and made a nest on the sofa where Harriet could recline. She looked frail, as if the flame keeping her moving was on the verge of guttering out. He worried that perhaps his figures had been too optimistic. Still, Jack was doing everything he could. He might as well do the same.
He sat down next to Harriet and handed her a leather-bound volume.
"What's this?" she asked, looking up at him.
"It's one of Gerald's journals. I retrieved it for you from the archives. The records say you were quite dear to one another. I thought you might like to remember him."
"Isn't it a little early to be opening his things?"
"I didn't think he'd mind." Ianto shrugged.
She smiled and opened the cover.
He excused himself to Jack's office. From this vantage point it was hard to tell whether or not she was still present. She didn't breathe, strictly speaking, and she certainly didn't look alive. The only real sign that she was animate was when she lifted her hand to turn a page in Gerald's journal. Even so, Ianto could tell she was flagging. This was barely the woman who'd left with Jack, bursting with sass in spite of her pale, cool skin.
Harriett was dying.
# # #
Jack pushed the buttons on his wrist strap and swore under his breath. This was the last house on the list, and while Ianto'd figured out where the scrap might have been dumped, Jack knew he was running out
of time. He scanned the area again. There were residual traces of alien tech, but nothing definitive. It was possible that since the box was in stand-by mode, it would be difficult to track, but pacing up and down the street didn't seem to affect the readings as much as it should have. The numbers were all over the place. It didn't make any sense.
He sighed and leaned against the SUV. The box was missing or hidden, and there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it.
The grumble of an approaching engine jerked him to attention. Jack watched as a dull blue Reliant Robin pulled unsteadily to the curb, and a drunken man in his late thirties lurched out. The man muttered and hummed while he trudged toward the row of houses.
Discouraged, Jack wrenched open the door to the SUV. He was just about to start the engine when his wrist strap chirped. He gawked at the readings, then at the little blue car.
"Bingo," he whispered, and darted across the road.
# # #
The Hub's entry alarm sounded as the heavy cog door rolled back. Jack entered the Hub with no small amount of purpose. His eyes lit on the sofa where Ianto knelt next to Harriet's listless body. He was stroking her hair, one hand resting on hers.
"Is she –" Jack started to ask as he approached.
Ianto shook his head. "Not quite."
"Harriet?" Jack said, crouching down next to Ianto. "I've found it."
Her eyes opened. She reached out for the matte grey cube and Jack pressed it into her grasp, careful to make sure she didn't drop it. The surface of the box began to glow as it absorbed the data Harriet
had been carrying.
"Thank you," she whispered, and was gone.
# # #
They spent the better part of two hours preparing Harriet's body for its return to her drawer. Gwen's spare clothes were in a bag to be laundered or incinerated at her option, and the cube sat on Jack's desk, waiting for them when they entered. It seemed alive now, glimmering in the subterranean gloom.
Jack slumped down into his chair and picked up the box to study it, tilting it in his hand so that it caught the light between them. "So what would you do if you had one of these? Would you use it?"
"I don't know," Ianto replied as he took it from Jack's palm. He held it, pressing and turning it as if to try it out. "There's something special about a good blank book. This is less tactile. Less human, maybe."
"Yeah, I suppose so." Jack took a deep breath and leaned back. He seemed to be looking everywhere but at the other man.
Ianto sat against the edge of Jack's desk, set the cube down on the glossy wooden surface, and crossed his arms. "Top drawer, bedside table. Failing that, my messenger bag."
"What?" Jack shook his head, not comprehending.
"My diary. The old ones go in a box in my closet. And don't get any ideas about reading them early. I still haven't forgiven you for the last time." Ianto stood and took Jack by the hand. "Now come on. I want to get at least a little bit of sleep in before the sun comes up."
"I can think of better things to do than sleep," Jack said, getting up to follow.
"Yes, and I can think of at least seven fates worse than death if you wake me," Ianto retorted as they took their places on the invisible lift. "If you're patient, though, I'll make us breakfast. Something with syrup."
"Syrup I can work with."
Jack engaged the lift, and they rose into the early morning fog.