"Allison" - 1/1

[invisible_lift]

Title: "Allison"
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.
Rating: Adult for sex work and explicit sex.
Pairing: Tosh/Ianto
Notes/Summary: An undercover investigation at a gentleman's club goes tragically wrong during Jack's absence. Set between S1 and S2. Beta-fu by kel_reiley This fic is one of the sponsored fics from this spring's charity drive. kayleigh_jane, I hope you like it.



“From distant star to this here bar,
The me, the you where are we now?
Hooray the blues of everyone,
Allison.”

-- The Pixies, “Allison”

The first thing Ianto notices is that the doormen are wearing suits. That isn’t unusual in itself, but under the circumstances he finds it mildly off-putting. It makes him wish he’d changed out of his own and into something more casual. Normally, suits comfort him. They’re structured and familiar. A good suit transforms him, at least for a little while, into a certain sort of man. It’s a lie, but it’s a working lie that helps him forget the odds and the worst bits of his blood.

Fantasy Lounge lays spread out before him, painted in colored lights. It’s dim but not dark. Not enough light and you can’t see the girls, but too much light and the imperfections (and the other patrons) become apparent. He unbuttons his jacket and orders a drink to take the edge off. It won’t be enough, but it’s comforting to go through the motions. Ever since Jack vanished Ianto’s been adrift, coasting along as best he can for the others and gritting his teeth at every hushed whisper or pitying look.

Gwen’s the worst about it, though he knows she means well. She’s worried about him is all. He isn’t sure if she’s got Owen worried, too, or if he’s still shaken from Abaddon and the aftermath. He’s still Owen – crass and unpleasant when he wants to be – but there’s enough vulnerability and mutual respect there now to make interacting with him tolerable.

Tosh, though, is the kindest. She’s so quiet, happy to be on the periphery with him while Owen and Gwen tussle for dominance. The two of them get an astonishing amount of work done, actually. She understands what he’s going through better than anyone else. It’s comforting. He can tell her things. Ianto isn’t sure if that makes him one of the girls or Tosh one of the boys. That’s immaterial in the long run really, though it does make him wonder what she thinks about this assignment. If there’s one thing Tosh isn’t, it’s an exhibitionist.

Drink in hand, he takes a seat just far enough from the stages not to seem too eager. The girls are crisscrossing the floor already, chatting up patrons and offering slightly more up-close attention. Two tables away, a blonde girl sways and licks her lips while she undoes her top. She rolls her shoulders back and it slips down her arms so easily that Ianto pictures her practicing it over and over again. He barely notices at first that he’s kept watching until another girl sidles up and offers him a dance of his own.

He feels guilty, like he’s been caught with his hand in a jar of cookies, so says yes and hands her a couple of notes before he looks at her face. She tucks them away so efficiently that Ianto is tempted to give her some more just to figure out the trick of it, but then he notices that there’s something familiar about her hands and looks up.

“Um,” he manages. And swallows. Because God, this is so completely bizarre.

Tosh bites her lip and gives him a sort of playful look as her hands start moving somewhere in the neighborhood of her hips but glide all over from there. “I’m Grace.” She flicks a lock of hair out of her eyes. Her extensively made-up eyes. Her hair’s been done. Gwen probably helped with that earlier. “What’s your name?”

Thing is, he’s sort of been off women since Lisa. Not in any sort of formal way, mind, but grieving was a process, and Jack was nothing if not a powerful distraction until he’d vanished, and… well, he’s blanked on their cover story enough to forget the name they’d agreed on. “Ianto.”

‘Grace’ smiles at him and wets her lips again. “Ianto. Now there’s a name I could enjoy saying over and over again.” She turns slow and then bends down to touch the floor, legs spread just a little wider than shoulder-width. Her tight, tiny skirt moves with her arse as she bends to reveal the curve of her rump and the small mound of her cunt, presently only just concealed by white cotton thong panties.

Jesus.

She teases against the cotton with a painted fingernail then rises back into an upright stance. Moving in time to the music, she rocks her arse from side to side and makes a show of giving her breasts a squeeze. “And what do you do, Ianto?”

“New media,” he answers and adjusts his position. “Social networking. That sort of thing. I help people monetize their online presence.”

She toys with the fastenings on her top. It’s different from the one the other girl was wearing. It’s stretchy, and when she undoes the snaps it sort of pops open. “You know, I might know a couple of girls here who could use a little bit of that.”

Ianto nods. He understands that much, because it’s code, and that Tosh is close to establishing which of the dancers isn’t human, but she needs more time. If she’d known, she’d have recommended a private dance with the other girl.

The last snap lets the fuzzy jumper shrug spring open to reveal Tosh’s breasts. She strokes them lightly then cups them into cleavage and leans in so they’re practically in his face. Near enough that if he leaned in he could suck the nipples she’s got pinched between her fingers.

He adjusts himself again, watches her lick the tips of her fingers so that she can really tease at one of her nipples. Her other hand is busy tucking the hem of her skirt into her waistband to show off those panties. “I’d, uh. I’d love a bit of business,” he says.

“I’ll bet you would.” She winks, and teases at herself through the panties again one last time as the song ends.

Ianto stares after her as she buttons her shirt back up and adjusts her skirt, then looks down at the tent in his trousers. He’s outrageously grateful when a waitress drifts by and offers him another drink. At this rate, he’s going to need the bottle.

Toshiko – no, Grace, because this is not Toshiko as he knows her, and it seems unfair not to let her inhabit the role that she’s taken on so astonishingly well – moves among the tables. A mixed group arrives and she flirts shamelessly with the women. It occurs to Ianto he’s never seen Tosh with a man, and can’t recollect her mentioning having dated one. He wonders if she would. If Grace would.

An hour passes. ‘Grace’ disappears into the back for a while, and Ianto pays for another two dances from two different women. The alcohol has helped him settle into his role pretty comfortably as well. He remembers what it was like to be a bit like this back in London, and that it was actually pretty fun.

And with Torchwood paying his tab? Well, he’s beginning to understand Owen’s relationship with expense reports.

In fact, he’s seriously considering another dance when the fire alarm goes off. Patrons and dancers shout at the sudden discharge of sprinklers, and security moves in to shepherd both toward the exits as efficiently as possible. Ianto scans the crowd but sees no sign of Toshiko. There’s no smell of smoke. He draws his gun and hits the speed dial on his mobile.

“Everything alright?” Gwen answers. She sounds tense.

“Call off emergency services and prepare to back us up,” he says as he tries the handle on the ‘Employees Only’ door that leads into the dressing area. It’s locked. “Tosh is MIA. I’m going in after her.”

He drops the phone back into his pocket and then squares himself with the door. A couple of hard kicks near the knob splinter the door jamb enough that he can force it open. “Tosh?” he calls out into the dark. He feels for a light switch – carefully, because his hands are wet – but when he flips it into position, nothing. The crunch of fine glass under his shoes confirms his guess. Something has knocked out the lights. He reaches into his breast pocket for his mini-torch. “Tosh, are you –“

The impact knocks him off his feet. Something leathery smashes into him and he crashes hard into the room’s back wall. Above him, a shelf gives way and what sounds like a collection of cocktail glasses tumbles to the floor and shatters. Ianto staggers to his feet, gasping and empty handed. Not that his gun would have done any good here in the dark, but he wouldn’t mind feeling more secure about his person right now.

Whatever it is bashes at the wall nearest him again. He scrambles back to evade but stumbles in the wet debris and falls flat on his arse. Some secret agent he’s turning out to be. Still, his hand closes around what feels like a wooden table leg. He drags it free and feels along it. The end – the foot – feels intact. The other end, though, is sharp, splintered wood. That gives him an idea.

“Oi!” he shouts and braces the foot against the wall like a spear from an old cheval de frise. “Yeah, you! Beastie! You missed me!”

The thing, whatever it is, lets out an awful, shrieking bellow, and Ianto grits his teeth and holds his breath as it launches his way. If this doesn’t work –

There’s a jarring impact, but rather than crushing him, the beast squeals and rears up. He pulls away, and then crawls into a nearby door frame. His eyes have finally begun to adjust, and he can see the outline of the door he came in through. Outside, the sirens that announce the arrival of various services – fire, police, ambulance – are getting closer. Inside, the creature’s breathing is labored. It gurgles, chokes, and lets out a soft, chirping cry.

Ianto feels in his pocket for his torch. By some miracle of tailoring, it’s still there. He brings it out and clicks it on.

Resting in a pool of blood near the center of the room and impaled by a large piece of scrap wood is a thing which might once have been a woman. Its claws grasp uselessly at the blood-and-water-slick table leg. It coughs and cries out again.

He spots his gun and picks it up. And then, because it’s the only humane and sensible thing to do, Ianto fires two shots at the thing’s head. It shudders and goes limp.

Seconds later, Owen kicks the door open.

They find Toshiko bleeding but alive underneath one of the makeup tables. She’s still dressed up like Grace, but there’s nothing in her manner to establish the persona. Ianto shakes the wet dirt and glass from his suit jacket and drapes it over her shoulders. “Mild concussion,” Owen says finally, and declares Tosh fit to move under her own power just long enough to get home. Gwen drives her. Ianto and Owen spend nearly twenty minutes getting the creature’s corpse into the SUV.

By the end of the night, when Ianto has washed the last of the broken glass and body glitter out of his hair, he’s so knackered he can barely see straight well enough to write in his diary.

# # #

They’re all back in the next morning. Owen’s got to autopsy the previous night’s addition. The owners of Fantasy Lounge are understandably furious over the whole thing, and Gwen already looks harried when he puts her first cup of coffee down on Jack’s desk.

Gwen’s desk now, he reminds himself. Even though they haven’t really moved much of anything.

Toshiko is busy with the odd bits of tech they’d recovered from the dancer’s makeup case. She should be home resting, but there are only four of them, and only Tosh is really qualified for this kind of thing.

Ianto busies himself with keeping the basics in order. He does a bit of detective work tracking down their alien’s flat, then starts getting the SUV ready to transport anything that looks important enough to confiscate. With no roommates and no next of kin to bother with, they’re due to finish everything by mid-afternoon. After that, it’s down to identification and archival. Which, in 48 hours, isn’t bad. It’s the sort of day that if everything goes well – no weevils, no Rift alarms, no weird objects showing up in the Bay – Jack would send everyone home early.

He rakes his fingers through his hair and sighs. He misses Jack. Deserting bastard. Still. Work to do.

“You look like you could use a hand,” Tosh says from the doorway. She’s still got a couple of scratches from last night, but otherwise she’s unmistakably herself. Clever, quiet Toshiko, who’s a lot more than she makes herself out to be. He likes that idea. It makes him feel nearer to her somehow.

“Sure,” he says, and waves her in. “So. You feeling alright?”

“Yeah, great,” she answers as she hands him a toolbox from the cart. “Bit sore.”

Ianto raises an eyebrow. “Owen said you took a hell of a hit.”

Tosh shakes her head and passes him a pair of containment boxes. “Not that bad. Just unlucky. Well, except for the bit where the sprinkler head got torn out of the ceiling.”

“And here I thought you were showing off.”

She laughs at that and elbows him in the ribs. He’s still a bit tender, though, and he winces more than usual. “Oh god!” she exclaims. “Sorry, I –”

“It’s fine,” he says, grinning as he waves her off. “Just, you know, don’t let Owen hear I’ve gotten beaten up by girls twice in two days. He’s been insufferable as it is.”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” Tosh says with mock solemnity. “Just remember choc –”

“Chocolate sprinkles, bit of whip, and if I don’t slip a Jaffa Cake your way now and again you’ll hit me some more,” he says as he puts the last two boxes into the SUV. He closes the hatch and brushes his hands together. “Incidentally, what did your last slave die of?”

Tosh elbows him again, but gently. Ianto puts an arm over her shoulders and gives her a little squeeze. They stand there for a moment. He can’t shake the feeling that there’s something else that needs saying, though neither of them seems to know how to acknowledge it properly. “I should tell Gwen we’re ready to go.”

Tosh nods and tucks a bit of hair back behind her ear.

# # #

“Definitely an alien,” Owen says, and picks up a half-empty bottle of Irn Bru from the kitchen table.

Gwen rolls her eyes. “Be nice.”

“I’m nice,” Owen protests. He puts the bottle down and moves out of view to bang around in the kitchen cupboards.

There’s a stack of books and magazines on the coffee table. Ianto reaches down and sorts through them. Gulliver’s Travels. An electronics manual. Two children’s stories. Three lad mags and a Cosmopolitan. “Fairly random assortment. At a guess she was either casting her net pretty wide or she wasn’t really reading them.”

“Kitchen’s empty,” Owen yells. “Well, unless you count the takeaway rubbish in the bin.”

Tosh steps out of the bedroom, eyes fixed on her PDA. “I’m not seeing anything that indicates alien tech,” she says. “I think she carried everything important with her and just came home to eat and sleep. Sort of sad, really.”

“Yeah, because I don’t know anyone who lives on takeaway and hardly ever goes home.” Owen grabs one of the empty containment boxes they’d brought in with them as a precautionary measure and gives Gwen a pointed look. “We done here?”

“Looks like it.” Gwen takes the other box and turns toward the door.

On the table, a clear blue plastic ring peeks out from beneath a bundle of advertisements. It was junk – just cheap costume jewelry – but it was kind of pretty. It was the sort of thing a person might like just to look at once in a while. He remembers the sound the alien had made when she lay dying. They didn’t even know her real name. Her landlord had called her Allison.

Ianto puts the ring in his pocket. He checks the flat over one last time to make sure the lights are turned off before he locks the door behind him. Case closed.

Back at the Hub, the four of them settle in to finish up the last of their work. Gwen, predictably enough, shoos them off before dinner. “Unless you hear from me, I don’t want to see any of you until at least nine tomorrow, got it? Tosh, you especially. Get some rest.”

Owen reaches for his jacket. “Does that mean I can knock off until Friday?”

Gwen crosses her arms. “No, but it does mean you get to sleep in and if I don’t see you by twelve you’re going to have more to worry about than a banging hangover. Good enough?”

He makes a show of grumbling, but Ianto can tell he’s taking the piss. Truth be told, he’s nearly certain working for Gwen is the best thing that’s happened to Owen in ages.

She’s a good leader. “Let me just clear up in the kitchen and I’ll be out,” Ianto says, and Gwen nods.

The kitchen is already tidy when he gets in, but he wipes down the counters and puts away the clean dishes anyway. It’s symbolic for him, this ordering of things. It helps him feel settled enough to leave. That’s his end of the deal, and if later on tonight he comes back in because being away makes him feel anxious, Gwen will pretend not to notice.

The rest of the lights are already low when he leaves through the cog door, and nearly so outside as well by the time he locks up the tourist office. The weather looks like it wants to turn nasty, and the wind off the Bay is freezing cold. He makes a quick trip to Tesco on foot in spite of it. He needs bog roll and toothpaste and some food that isn’t takeaway, even if it’s just a bag of oranges or a bar of chocolate or something.

That plastic ring in his pocket spooks him a little. Underneath the Plass there’s a dead girl called Allison who was unlucky enough to fall through time and space and wound up here, but her flat (and really, her life) wasn’t so different from his. Killing her doesn’t make him any better, or any less of a ghost. Killing her just means postponing his inevitable march into that same set of vaults.

He’s staring at a wall of tinned soup trying to decide exactly how pointless the whole thing is when his mobile rings and startles him. He kicks himself a little for being caught in a moment of ridiculous existential angst. “Tosh,” he answers. "You alright?”

“Fine,” she says. “Just, you know…”

“Thinking about today?” he ventures. His eyes stay on the soup.

“Yeah.” She pauses. “Have you gone home yet?”

“No. I’m at Tesco. Whinging.” He scuffs at the tile with the sole of his shoe.

Across the line there’s a sound like keystrokes. “Tesco by work, or –“

“Yeah. I don’t even have anything in my basket yet. It’s literally the most pathetic thing I’ve done this week.”

“Okay,” she says. “Stay there. Do your shopping. I’ll meet you out front in ten.”

Ianto’s eyebrows go up. “Ten minutes?”

“Ten minutes.”

This, Ianto thinks, he can do. Given a deadline and a bit of oversight, he’s more capable of just about anything. Soup becomes chicken noodle, split pea, vegetable beef. He gets bread and milk and sugar, the bag of oranges, a couple of cans of beans, and picks up a bottle of cheap red wine on impulse. It’s none of it a meal, but it isn’t bad for ten minutes of random impulse shopping, and it balances out the bog roll and toothpaste in that it allows him to at least pretend he lives at home. Good as her word, Toshiko’s car is waiting outside. He loads his bags into the trunk and gets in.

“Your car smells of spaghetti bolognaise,” he says, brow furrowed.

Tosh tilts her head to indicate the back seat. He leans over and looks. Behind the driver’s seat is a bag with a couple of Styrofoam takeaway boxes inside.

“Oh.”

“I thought, you know, as long as I’m getting myself something,” she says brightly before adding, “Not that we have to eat together. I mean, I can just drive you to your car and–"

“No, that sounds great,” Ianto tells her. And it does, though he suspects she wants it for the same reason he’s got a load of groceries in her trunk. “Wherever’s good. Gwen gave us the night off, remember? And, ah, I bought a bottle of wine.”

They’re quiet for most of the ride to her flat. Just a bit of friendly chit-chat about nothing in particular. It occurs to him briefly to worry. It’s a work night, and chances are he’ll wind up crashing on Toshiko’s sofa for the night, and he hasn’t got a change of clothes or anything. Still, knowing Tosh, they’ll be up early enough to pop by his flat so he can shower and shave. They’re kindred spirits, and neither of them is wont to let these things slip.

She’s telling him a story about university when they arrive. “…and so what does he do? He leans across my bloody seat again!” she exclaims with a laugh as she pushes the door open and switches on the light. He follows her in, wine and food in hand.

“What did you do?”

Tosh blushes. “I may have punched him in the groin.”

He gapes, and laughs, and Tosh laughs too. They make quick work of putting food onto plates and wine into glasses, and then carry everything over to the little table. Ianto, for his part, is famished though he takes a moment to tuck the corner of a paper napkin into the front of his collar.

“You could just take off your tie,” Tosh teases.

“We’re eating spag bol. I’d have to take off my whole shirt,” Ianto says, then looks down at his plate. It’s the sort of thing that if Jack were here would provoke a raunchy one-liner or comeback. Tosh quite sensibly says nothing of the short. He forces a smile and goes back to it with his fork. “Anyway.”

Tosh pours him more wine and then raises hers as if to toast. “Anyway.”

They clink glasses and go back to their meal.

# # #

As it happens, Toshiko keeps quite a lot more wine about the house than Ianto does. “I feel like Bernard Black,” he giggles as they stumble over to the sofa with a new bottle. “I can already see Gwen’s face, all sort of motherly and disapproving.”

“Poor Gwen. No wine for her,” Tosh says and puts down her glass. “No dancing either.”

Ianto looks up, confused. “Dancing?”

“Dancing.” Tosh stands up and walks over to the stereo. “I owe you a dance. It was in the plan and then everything went bad.”

It takes Ianto a minute to catch what Tosh is getting at. By then, the Portishead is already playing and Tosh is on her way back to where he’s sitting. “You don’t –“ he starts, but she shushes him.

Her cardigan drops to the floor.

The lighting in Tosh’s flat is low, but worlds different from Fantasy Lounge. Here it’s warm and diffuse. Her skin practically glows, soft and surely warm, and when she sticks a foot between his he spreads his knees for her.

Tosh steps in between his feet. Her hands glide over her body, particularly her breasts in their silky white brassiere. She toys with the zip at the side of her skirt, then uses her fingertips to draw the hem higher and higher until Ianto can barely see her knickers. She spreads her legs just a little to keep it there while she dances for him.

Transfixed (and honestly a little terrified because these things do not happen in real life and oh god this is Tosh, really Tosh, and not some fake person) he watches as she reaches around to undo her bra. Truth be told, he’s been thinking of her breasts since last night. Not intentionally. It’s just that he’s human and living, and thinking about sex is something living brains do. Also, Toshiko has magnificent breasts.

She lets her bra drop down next to her cardigan and licks her lips. “You know, they give you a whole list of things you can’t do as a dancer.” With her fingertips she teases at her nipples until they draw up tight, suckable nubs. “It’s ironic, because they’re selling sex, you know? And yet.” Tosh reaches down and undoes the zip on her skirt.

He’s got no choice but to adjust himself.

With a flourish, she turns and lets the skirt drop to the floor. Her knickers are all silky white, and would match her bra if she were still wearing it. She turns to face him again and puts one foot on the sofa so that her crotch is inches from his face. When he looks up at her, questioning, she just nods.

Ianto gives in and presses his lips to the cloth. When he slips his tongue out and presses it against the fabric, she rests a hand on the back of his head. Encouraged, he laps at the cloth and presses his face against her. It isn’t enough, though, and so he pushes the fabric aside so he can taste her. He teases with his fingers and then slides a couple inside. He hums his pleasure against her clit. She’s so wet.

Above him, Toshiko moans. She grips his skull and grinds into his face, and when he curls his fingers just so he can feel her thighs shudder. Ianto can’t help but feel gratified at how many little sounds she’s making for him. They aren’t loud – not yet – but he can tell she might be if he works at it. Oh, and he wants to so badly.

“Yes,” she says, over and over as she clenches tight around his fingers. “Yes.”

His jaw hurts when she lets go of his head and steps back, but he’s still disappointed until he realizes she’s doing it so she can haul him bodily to her bed.

She’s stronger than she looks, Toshiko.

Ianto undoes his tie while she works on his belt and his flies. They get him out of his shirt together, and the he peels away her damp white knickers for her. She kneels between his legs and strokes him before she puts the condom on.

“Tosh,” he says, and touches her arm as she scoots up to straddle him. “Do you think we’ll regret this tomorrow?”

She just leans down to kiss him as she guides his cock in.

Ianto groans. He reaches out and grasps her hips as he pushes in deeper because she’s hot and slick and oh, he was right about the sounds she’d make. She rises and falls, riding him as he thrusts up to meet her. Her breasts bounce in time and her eyes are closed and her mouth is a perfect little O as he fucks her except when she says “yes” and “more” and “harder.”

He is grateful for the alcohol, but also glad he’s not so drunk to do this. He’s in some sort of boozed-up sweet spot where he can do this without embarrassment, and conceive of sitting up and having her get on her hands and knees so he can have her from behind (which he does not expect her to love as much as she does), but most of all he’s able to last longer than he’d usually manage under these kinds of circumstances.

By the time Ianto puts her on her back with her legs on his shoulders they’re both damp with sweat and saliva and everything shy of his own come. And oh, he’s close, and he loves her like this because she’s so tight with her legs almost together. He’s honestly not 100% sure if Tosh is getting closer too, or if she’s just making pleasure sounds for his benefit. And then she reaches down between her legs with one hand.

Mostly, she touches herself, but fingertips stray back to touch him now and again. It’s novel, and not something entirely in his control, and that kicks him into a whole different gear entirely. Tosh notices (and really, how could she not when he grabs her so tight and starts plowing her hard into the mattress?) and so she starts to do it on purpose. She strokes at his shaft, squeezes him in a tight little v of her fingers before going back to her clit. When she touches herself he can feel each little spasm and quake as she rides him closer to orgasm.

He can’t predict it at all, and so it feels like a race to see if he can make her come like this before she gets him off. And then she grasps him tight and pumps him with her fingers.

Ianto shouts and squeezes her hips as he starts to come. It takes a few good thrusts to really feel finished, and he’s panting and slick with sweat by the time he’s just about done. In fact, he’s just about forgotten what Tosh is doing down there when her fingers do something that sends her over the falls to join him while he’s still inside her. It’s so close to too much that he almost yelps.

When she’s done, Ianto eases out of her and disposes of the condom in the bedside bin. When he turns around again she’s stretched out, happy and languid like a cat who’s got the cream.

Oh, but that’s just about precisely what she is. He grins. She grins back. He kisses her. They’re both sticky and wet and he’s completely exhausted. She wraps her arms and legs around him and they laugh, low and quiet.

He falls asleep with her stroking his hair.