ph_logs | we got this feeling in our souls we carry, it's about to be legendary (OPEN)

Who: Ianto Jones (

needmetodoanyattacking) & YOU!
What: Ianto's a bit lost, but he's ready to find things anew--or, Ianto's Canon Update through episode 2.2: SLEEPER of TORCHWOOD.
When: 2/19 onward
Where: All over Hell's half acre
Warning(s): Torchwood typical--violence, abuse, PTSD, will add them if they come up and mind the tag subjects as well.

take a look around me, taking pages from a magazine (RE-ARRIVAL)

When he woke in Jack's office, everything was...messy in his head. He remembered, in abstract, the things he'd seen (dreamed?), the choices he'd made, the things he'd lost. The pale woman with the dark eyes...

...but life goes on. Death falls away, and when Jack is there, back in his arms and kissing him like his life depends on it, somehow the pain is worse.

Somehow, his losses feel more, sharper--painful for their distance.

Maybe that's why it's easier to be angry when Jack runs off again. To keep his head when Jack comes back, asking him out on a bloody date--to marshall himself when they have to deal with Beth and Cell 114.

Maybe that's why, when he wakes up in that office a second time, he's not so surprised--nor is he quite so rattled.

When he comes off the ferry, his head is still a mess, as it was when he woke up--but as he walks the streets of Pumpkin Hollow, uncertain at first but with growing confidence, gradually he sorts the mess as he sorts out everything.

And when he's got himself back together...he realizes he's got a lot of work to do.

been looking for the answers, ever since we were seventeen (ALL ABOUT TOWN)

There's a lot to do in the coming days. He needs to find and speak to Dahlia, but he has to do so through channels. He realizes, one day at the bar of the Oak and Iron (where he has a lot of bloody apologies to make) that Jack actually set a fine example of where to start. Jack Harkness, of all people.

What the hell has his life become?

There is also the matter, of course, of the bargain he made before he was sent away...and so while running errands around town, pertaining to settling back into his routine, Ianto also makes a visit to the temple.

The goddess is waiting--he just has to figure out how to best make good on his word.

you know the truth could be a weapon to fight this world of ill intention (TORCHWOOD FIVE)

He has to work from memory, but fortunately he's got a photographic one.

The first step is a bulletin posting. The next is a visit to the library--one that comes without breaks or departure from opening to closing.

The next is a series of inquiries made discreetly, but not secretly--namely, visits to those affiliated with the Occularum.

After all, he's got solid knowledge of the Historical Society--and with the debts he has to pay, he'll make inroads with the temple soon enough.

[OOC: all those who are aligned with the Occularum who want to tag? Ianto's scheduled an appointment, choose your own locale for this meeting. Man wants to make a few friends. >.>]

a new answer to the same question: how many times will you learn the same lesson? (WILDCARD)

CHOOSE YOUR OWN IANTO!

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It's while Ianto is at the library that a set of taloned feet can be heard on the hardwood floor behind him, before a low, oddly familiar voice speaks:

"Pocket check."

The knee jerk flash of irritation and fear that lances through Ianto is confusing, then familiar, then fully recognized in the span of seconds as he smiles to himself.

He’s still not quite sure who some of those he met in the dream were native or not…and the natives don’t remember the dream.

“You do realize if this is going to become a thing, I might be tempted to keep alarming things on hand for your benefit.” He warns before lifting his gaze, turning—

—and blinking with a moment of shock induced stillness before recovering and offering a nod of greeting as his smile grows.

“It’s good to meet you. Properly, this time—and I am sorry for what a rotten little shite I was at that age, that’s one area where the dream and reality collided.”

The big difference here is that the man standing behind Ianto is Definitely Not Human--he's a whole-ass eagle-dude, with big wings coming out of his back and a sharp beak.

"Right, you're still something of a rotten little shite, but we ought to talk, anyway."

Guess who's become a protective father figure toward Dahlia?

…well. Dahlia must have been talking while he was away.

Drawing a deep breath as he sobers, Ianto nods, gesturing for him to wait a moment. He walks away, but not far—merely shelves a couple of books he’s been reading in nearby stacks, collects the notebook he’s been scribbling in, and gestures to the door.

“Let’s have this discussion outside?” He offers quietly. “You’re either going to berate me or bleed me, I wager, and both are poor form in a library.”

"You're projecting your emotions onto me, and assuming my reaction from that." Cerrit clicks his beak quietly, his beady steel-blue eyes boring into Ianto. "And without all the facts of the matter."

“I’m really not—because I hurt Dahlia. I’m certain I’m not wrong in assuming you know this, and you care for her—it’s hard not to if you know her.” Ianto replies, muted tone and even, if resigned expression unchanged. “And if someone else had hurt her, and I were confronting them? I wouldn’t berate or bleed them-I would kill them. And I would keep killing them…and I wouldn’t stop until death became permanent in this place again.”

He pauses to shrug.

“I’m assuming you’re a bit more reasonable than I am—but if I’m wrong about having hurt her, or that you do care for her, I stand happily corrected. However, I don’t think I’m quite so lucky.”

"Son, you need to learn to shut the fuck up and listen. Your problem's all that talking. And talking at people, not talking with them."

Cerrit lightly taps Ianto on the forehead with...is it still the palm of the hand when the hand is scaled and taloned? Either way, the talons don't so much as touch Ianto's skin, so very careful.

"I can't tell you a damned thing about Dahlia that you don't already know. But I can tell you all about yourself."

Ianto doesn’t flinch, but he does screw his eyes briefly shut as he’s—well, bapped by that scaly hand.

When he opens them again, he sighs, purses his lips, and raises his eyebrows expectantly.

Well? He’s listening—and he’s doing so with only…oh, about thirty five percent silent sarcasm.

And, in all truth, zero judgment or resistance. The little shite may be alive and well, but Ianto still remembers the blurred recollection of loss when he found and lost Jack—the dark eyes that haunted his every step.

If Cerrit has something to say that can help him…he’s open to hear it.

"You aren't going to solve everything by yourself. No one can, no one will. But first, you need to stop and listen--not just to me, but to her and to everyone else. Get an actual idea of the scope of the problem. Don't put that lass on a pedestal, alright?"

Cerrit glances off to one side, as if he's trying to pick his words very, very carefully. The feathers of his crest fluff slightly, as if he's frustrated with himself.

"There's a lot going on. And none of it is simple, and none of it is pretty."

Ianto stays silent a few more moments, then bows his head with a sigh and nods.

"...thank you."

When he looks up again, his expression has lost anything confrontational. He's sober, chastened, and his small smile is one of genuine gratitude.

"I put a letter in the post for her--overstepping boundaries is where most of this began, so I felt I should take a step back to put her in control of those boundaries." he admits. "I said as much, quite plainly. I know I still feel quite raw, but I'm far more...cognizant of where I'm best served in channeling my own feelings. If she's still hurting, I want to give her room to heal. So...this makes me feel as if what I've done so far is more right than wrong. Thank you for that."

"Just..." Cerrit again seems to be picking his words thoughtfully, but there's an annoyed beak-click. "There is more going on than you, Ianto."

That is fair game, it's not news, it's not information that Ianto doesn't have, but underlining it feels worth the effort.

"And you can help or hurt, but you're not the everything of the matter. The everything is a damned lot."

Ianto doesn't understand, not really--but he has sudden, painful, clear comprehension of what's happening.

He's spent enough time talking around Torchwood to know when he's the one on the outside while the proverbial wagons are being circled. He's kept so many secrets to the detriment of so many that he loves...

He sometimes wonders if Gwen had been right: had he told Jack and the others about Lisa, could she have been saved?

Something hard passes through his gaze at that, but not angry. He nods, resolute.

"Dahlia is the everything." he replies. "I understand that perfectly."

He steps closer, leaning in to speak softly into Cerrit's ear.

"But believe me, and this is genuine, well meant advice--there is no middle ground for secrets. You save people or you kill them. Make sure that whatever you're not telling me isn't one of the latter."

Reaching up, he squeezes Cerrit's shoulder in a warm, silent gesture of gratitude before drawing back and walking away.

“Fucking…stop walking away from people who aren’t done talking with you! That is the rudest shit and pisses people off. You’re haring off on your assumptions and not letting others finish a conversation on their terms.”

And it pisses Cerrit off as much as Dahlia, but he’s not going to be quiet and sullen about it.

"And you're hiding something." Ianto replies over his shoulder, still walking away. "You want to have the last word? Come check my pockets again--and find a way to tell me what you know."

He turns on his heel to walk backwards towards the door, smirking.

"Now hush. You're in a library."

He brings his finger to his lips with a wink as he backs out the door.

we got this feeling in our souls we carry, it's about to be legendary (OPEN)

ever since we were seventeen

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