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Jack climbs up from the room beneath his office one morning to find on his desk a smallish canister he has no memory of putting there. And he would definitely remember this. It’s been a couple hundred years, but he would recognize these anywhere. The tiny machines flit around in the glass or heavy plastic or whatever, suffused in a soft golden glow. He wonders briefly which member of the team found these, and where, and why they didn’t say anything, then shrugs, makes a mental note to ask when they get in, and sets the canister aside for Ianto to file away in the archives. At least they know what this one is.
It’s only much later, as he’s cradling a dying Ianto in his arms, that he thinks about them, tucked away uselessly in the Torchwood archives, 150 miles away in Cardiff.
* * *
Jack climbs up from the room beneath his office one morning to find on his desk a smallish canister he has no memory of putting there and gets a vague feeling of déjà vu, which he quickly dismisses as surprise at seeing these again after so long. It’s been, what, a hundred fifty, two hundred years? A lifetime ago – more than. He was a different person, then. The tiny machines shift around and bump into the glass or heavy plastic or whatever when he picks the canister up, and that’s when he sees the note.
‘You’ll need these.’ Unsigned, but he’d recognize his own handwriting anywhere. He turns the scrap of paper over, looking for a date, but there is none. He shrugs, setting the canister aside for Ianto to archive. The note he keeps, and on the back he writes down the room, shelf, and box numbers Ianto divulges when asked, satisfied that when he ‘needs these,’ he’ll know where they are.
It’s only much later, as he’s cradling a dying Ianto in his arms, that he realizes what the note meant. But both note and canister are miles and miles away.
* * *
Jack climbs up from the room beneath his office one morning to find on his desk a smallish canister he has no memory of putting there, but there’s a definite sense of déjà vu. He recognizes the contents of the canister immediately, a century and a half not enough to erase his memory of that night in 1941, with the Doctor and Rose. He smiles a little, picks up the canister for a closer look at the tiny machines, and that’s when he sees the note.
‘Keep these close – you’ll need them.’ Unsigned, but in his own handwriting, and he’s learned over the years to trust himself. He tucks both canister and note into one of his desk drawers. It’ll be there when he needs it.
It’s only much later, as he’s cradling a dying Ianto in his arms, that he realizes ‘close’ wasn’t specific enough. He figures when it’s his turn to write the note (as he’s now pretty sure it will be, eventually), he’ll be more specific.
* * *
Jack climbs up from the room beneath his office one morning to find on his desk a smallish canister he has no memory of putting there, only there’s a frisson of awareness that he did. The tiny machines flitting around inside glow at him mockingly. He glares at them, resisting the urge to swipe them off the desk and onto the floor. The note beneath (written in his own hand, suspiciously enough) urges him to keep them on his person. Apparently he’ll not have a lot of warning when he ‘needs them,’ as the note so vaguely insists he will. He shrugs, offers the canister one last glare, then slips it into a pocket of his coat. They’d better come in handy soon, or they’re like to get broken.
It’s only much later, as he’s cradling a dying Ianto in his arms, that he realizes he’s an idiot. If, as he now suspects, he was indeed (is? will be? He really should have paid more attention in that Grammar of Time Travel class…) – but if he was the author of that note, then he knew damn well the coat was destroyed in the same blast that took out most of the Hub. Next time around, he promises himself. Next time, he’ll get it right.
* * *
Jack climbs up from the room beneath his office one morning to find on his desk a smallish canister he has no memory of putting there, though this whole thing feels way too familiar. He moves the canister aside with barely a glance, eyes only for the note he somehow knows will be under it.
‘Give to Ianto – tell him to keep it with him.’
The words, written in his own handwriting, make little sense, but as Ianto climbs up behind him, still looking adorably rumpled, Jack draws him close for a kiss. When Ianto goes to make the day’s first round of coffee, Jack quietly slips the canister into an inside pocket of the suit jacket still draped neatly over the back of the couch. Either Ianto will ask about it, or he’ll trust Jack.
It’s only much later, as he’s cradling a dying Ianto in his arms, that he realizes with horror that Ianto’s suit jacket is nowhere to be seen.
* * *
Jack climbs up from the room beneath his office one morning to find on his desk a really fucking familiar canister, though he can’t quite recall where he’s seen it before. He barely gives it a second glance as he lifts it seemingly by instinct to get to the note beneath, the one that’s in his own handwriting but which he’s never written. The one that, very specifically and very strangely, instructs him to have Ianto keep the canister in his trouser pocket.
It’s only much later, as he’s cradling a dying Ianto in his arms, that the note makes any sense at all. He reaches around Ianto, fishing in the man’s pocket, and pulls out the canister.