Torchwood: Fanfic: Not necessarily alone

[m_findlow]

Title: Not necessarily alone
Fandom: Torchwood
Characters: Ianto, Jack
Author: m_findlow
Rating: PG
Length: 1,030 words
Content notes: none
Author notes: Written for badly_knitted's prompt "any, any, realising that sound isn't the echo of your own footsteps but someone behind you" at fic_promptly
Summary: Just when you think you're alone, it turns out you're not

It takes a bit of getting used to working in the hub. The place was never designed to be ergonomic, environmentally friendly, or to be set out in any way that makes logical sense. That's the problem with the place being one hundred and thirty years old.

It may have started off small, but requirements change and so does the need for space. They dig a bit further underground and create a few more vaults. Along comes the industrial revolution, and someone decides an underground train line from London to Cardiff is in order. Decades roll on and on, and the hub grows bigger and more complex, a veritable rabbit warren of tunnels, passages, vaults, compartments, docks, storage rooms and other miscellanea. To navigate its entire length and breadth is impossible for even the most seasoned agent. It's one of the reasons they keep their headsets active at all times. Getting lost is an occupational hazard. Even more so if you're the self-appointed caretaker of all things Torchwood.

It would be too much to ask that all of the archive vaults be located in a single area of the hub. There are pockets of them dotted all around the facility, some small, and some enormous. Some take minutes to access, others are a half hour walk away, not to mention several flights of stairs and ladders, and the odd rusty old elevator, which is used sparingly in case it should break down and leave some poor agent stranded in some of the most inaccessible spaces in all of Wales, probably in all of Britain.

It's not the distance or the darkness, or even the smell of damp that has seeped in from years of tidal bay activity that unnerves you that far down. It's the silence. This far away from the main bowels of the hub, there's not a sound to be heard, other than those you create yourself. It's like being in a vacuum.

But just occasionally, there's a tiny sound here or there. He suspects it's the creaking of the old wooden framing. Some of these shelves look Victorian, and they're probably riddled with mould, holding together with blind hope alone. A single gush of air might be enough to tip the entire thing crashing to the ground. It's potentially dangerous work trying to find anything down here with the need to shift things about. Rats don't venture this far into the hub. There's nothing to interest them, and there's certainly no food or warmth to attract them.

The only sound that keeps him company down here is the sound of his own voice. The room is so large, and the sound reverberates so slowly that he could almost have a conversation with himself by the time his voice bounces back to meet his own ears. Whistling while he works can sound like an entire chorus of people whistling along with him, albeit off beat.

That's what alerts him to his current dilemma. As the tune rings off for the final time there's a distinctive tap, tap, tap. He stops and waits a moment. It's probably just his own steps echoing through the narrow space between the shelves. Probably.

Then it comes again. Tap, tap, tap.

Okay, not me, he reasons. He's in two minds. He could activate his comms and check that everyone else is accounted for up in the main area of the hub. It would however mean giving away his position. Then again, he's going to feel really silly if it's one of the others come to find him, though Lord knows how they've managed it. He got lost twice on the away here as it was.

He tries to calm his breathing, straining for the tapping sound from just moments ago, but it's eerily quiet now. Maybe he imagined it after all. He tentatively takes a few steps forward, listening carefully for the echoes that match his own footfalls. He counts them off. Step, echo. Step, echo. Step, echo. Step, echo. Four steps, four echoes.

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

Right, that's nine now. Even accounting for a double echo, that's one too many.

He taps his comms a couple of items to alert the others.

‘Ianto? Is that you? One tap for yes, two taps for no.'

Tap.

‘Is everything okay?'

He sighs. Two taps seems too dramatic, one tap is pointless. He needs another option. Where was three taps for "I haven't got a bloody clue"? He resigns himself to two taps.

‘Are you hurt?'

Tap tap. But I might be about to be.

‘Should I come down?'

Tap. Just all this tapping his comms could be enough movement for whatever it is to take a liking to him and strike.

‘On my way. Hang tight.'

He debates whether to take a few more steps, or maybe just to take his chances and run like the clappers. Too many wildlife documentaries have killed off that idea as he pictures a gazelle being chased down by a cheetah on the savannah plains. The last thing he needs is David Attenborough providing voiceover commentary for his current situation. The Welsh springbok, cut down in the prime of its life by its vastly superior predator. Lovely.

It's going to take Jack at least twenty minutes at a sprint to get down here. That's twenty minutes in which he has to decide on a course of action. After five, he's had enough. If something is about to tear him to shreds, he'd at least like to know what it was. It'll be a funny story to tell when he's trying to knock on the pearly gates and request admission.

Four more steps, then he'll turn around and face it. He inhales deeply.

One, two, three, four.

Tap! Tap! Tap! Tap!

He turns.

There's nothing there. He turns again and surveys his position from all angles. He take a few broad steps in the direction he last heard the sound.

Tap, tap, tap, tap. Now it's behind him again. He spins quickly. Still nothing. Where the hell is the noise coming from? He twists around quickly again, and that's when he spots it.

There's a piece of string caught on the back of his trouser leg. At the end of it is a fragment of wood. It must have gotten caught when he was shifting some old crates. He takes a step forward and watches as it clacks on the ground behind him.

He closes his eyes, feeling equal parts relieved and incredibly stupid.

‘Jack?'

‘Ianto?'

‘Don't worry about coming to rescue me.'

‘You sorted it out?'

He detaches the offensive piece of string from his leg, examining it more closely. ‘Something like that,' he sighs.

‘What was it?' Jack asks curiously.

‘Just the ghosts of Torchwood past.'

Comments

[bk_forever]

I love your descriptions of Torchwood's vast underground maze! I'd hate to be down there alone, the archives at the university library where I used to work were bad enough, I'd get really creeped out ot times.

Poor Ianto, I thought something nasty really was creeping up on him. So glad it was nothing dangerous!

Thanks for the fill!

[m-findlow.livejournal.com]

Thanks. I wracked my brain for ages trying to figure out what it was. Usually I start with the ending and work backwards, but this time I'd written the entire fic almost to the end and thought, blimey, you've written in all the suspense and anxiety, but what is it?
I was tempted for it to be Colin the spider mouse, but I think this works better. Still not thrilled with the ending, thinking there could have been something better, but that's contest week for you.

[bk_forever]

Yeah, it's hard sometimes to come up with what you want when there's such a rapid turnaround between fics. I skipped over several prompts I was interested in writing simply because I knew I'd need time to think about them.