BTBD Challenge 71 - Lured into temptation

[m_findlow]

Title: Lured into temptation
Fandom: Torchwood
Characters: Ianto
Author: m_findlow
Rating: PG
Length: 2,037 words
Content notes: none
Author notes: Written for Challenge 71 - Vice at beattheblackdog
Summary: Every vice has a point of origin

Ianto couldn't be sure exactly when the light bulb moment had happened. He knew the rest of the team had become completely addicted his coffee, and that they were both grumpy and irritable without it, but rarely did they ever give a thought to the fact that he was equally caught in its clutches.

Coffee had never been a thing at home. His mum was a tea drinker, through and through. So was everyone in his family, he realised. Tea was a civilised drink. Tea was what he came home to when he'd been out with the lads all night, sharing bottles of cheap beer and cans of Jack Daniel's and cola, tagging the backs of buildings along the train line with cans of spray paint and just generally running amok around estate. Tea was for when he was slumped at the kitchen counter, exhausted, affirming the lies that they'd stayed up all night watching horror films and binging on crisps. Tea, his mum promised, would soak up all the fatty oil from the crisps and help him sleep. Coffee never even came into the equation.

Then he'd moved to London, and coffee had become the lifeline between cramming for exams, packing shelves and running stocktakes in bitterly cold warehouses for cash. Coffee gave him the buzz he needed to keep going, but it was always the cheapest stuff he could find, straight off the supermarket shelf, powdered and tasting more like jet fuel than coffee. Tea was long forgotten. He didn't need anything to help him sleep when he was up eighteen hours a day trying to make ends meet. He wouldn't ever tell his mum that, though. All she needed to know was that he was okay and working hard. That would help her sleep at night.

Somewhere along the line, he'd finally managed to gather together bit of savings, right towards the end of his uni studies. Instead of throwing it all away on a boozy trip to Benidorm, he treated himself to small things, one being a proper coffee at a café on his way to uni each morning. At first he was too tired from the night before to even notice the difference, but as the weeks wore on, he came to look forward it, enjoying the hum inside the café, the clanking of the machinery, the hiss of the milk being frothed, and the smell of the roasted beans being ground. That was the best smell in the world, and almost singlehandedly invigorated him even before the warm liquid met his lips, the paper cup bringing feeling back into his frozen fingers.

Each day he watched them go about their business, getting up extra early just to sit there in the warmth and spectate, taking note of the process, memorising each person's order and what went into it, one scoop of grounds or two, how long to froth the milk, and the ratio of milk to froth. He'd become one of the regular crowd.

His final exams done, he considered asking them for work. He still didn't know what he was supposed to do with his life, even with a university degree, but at least this would be something he might enjoy for a while, whilst he figured out the rest. All he knew was that he couldn't go home. Not yet. Not until he'd made something of himself and proved to his father than he would be more than he'd been.

He never got the chance to ask for a job. The next morning ten minutes before he'd been ready to leave, headed for the shop for his regular caffeine fix, and hopefully gainful employment, the knock on the door had come. The tall blonde woman and the other two men flanking her on each side, telling him he'd been selected to join their organisation.

Why him? There had to be a hundred thousand other blokes in London his age and with more qualifications than him. No, apparently some psychological testing they'd done, - and when had they done that? - had proved him to be perfectly suited to a low level entry role.

They'd left with barely a word, leaving him standing in the doorway clutching the ridiculously thick employment contract, full of questions but no answers.

He took it with him down to the café, and spent three hours, and four coffees digesting its contents. He was still little better informed as to what exactly it was that this company Torchwood did, but there must have been seventy pages alone dedicated to confidentiality, and finally, at the back of the document, a requisite signing of the Official Secrets Act.

'You want another coffee, hun?' the young waitress asked him. 'I could fetch up a cheese toastie to go with. Looks like you might need it.'

Indeed. He'd planned on coming here for a job, and instead it looked like he was about to sign his life away to someone else. He checked over the contract again, wondering if it might stipulate the kitchen facilities on offer. It was halfway across town. The coffee he picked up first thing in the morning wouldn't last as far as the walk to the tube station, let alone by the time he arrived. What would he do if he was stuck in an office all day with nothing but instant coffee? He didn't think he could go back to that. Maybe he shouldn't sign. Then again, he could hear his dad's voice in his head, telling him how ashamed he was that he'd been convicted, and how he'd wasted all the opportunities his parents had given him. No, he had to do this. He couldn't throw it all away just because he'd become enamored with the local coffee shop. Canary Wharf was all shiny and new. Surely they'd have some swanky cafés down there, and with his offered salary, which modest as it was, was still more than he'd ever had, he'd be able to afford it.

Had he known at the time when he'd been considering his future, that his first few months in his new job would consist of nothing more than making coffee and fetching files for people on a much higher pay grade than himself, he might not have hesitated so much. The coffee machine in Torchwood kitchen was very high tech, though hardly used.

'Too much bloody bother,' someone had said to him that first day he'd been sent to sort out a skinny soy latte and a short black. 'Quicker to nip downstairs and buy them pre-made. Shove it in a cup and they'll be none the wiser.'

Ianto was fairly sure they would notice. It was going to be hard to replicate the delicate fern leaf pattern in the froth once it was tipped upside down. Instead he took the instruction manual home, tucked at the back of the cupboard and read up on each detail. Coming in early the next day, he fiddled and tweaked, consulting the guide endlessly, and using what he'd learned from hours of idling in his own local coffee shop. The first attempt hissed and spat, the machine out of use and clogged, but the second one was better. He used himself as the guinea pig, noting that the beans tasted a little burnt, and the milk a bit flat, but the third go was finally getting somewhere. It wasn't quite as good as what he himself was used to drinking, but it wasn't far off.

Soon, the art of making the coffee was less of a drudgery and more enjoyable, and no one was complaining about the quality as he continued experimenting with getting it just right, always making two, and leaving one for himself. They'd asked him to make them a coffee, but no one said anything about him not having one. He knew he'd finally hit success when he overhead two senior managers chatting in the corridor, one with a paper cup in hand.

'They've changed owners downstairs again,' he heard one mutter. 'Coffee isn't nearly as good anymore. Makes you want to go back to being properly British and drink tea.'

'Get that kid Jones to sort you out.'

'Which Jones? There's about fifty bloody Joneses around here.'

'The one with the funny name. Welsh or Scottish probably. He's not got anything else to do. Be nice if all those useless clerks could at least make decent coffee.'

Fortunately despite his newfound coffee making skills, he managed to keep a low profile, and only a handful of lucky individuals ever managed to sample his handmade brew. He was simply a file clerk and most people barely knew he existed. Everyone except Lisa, that was.

Then everything went pear-shaped.

Sitting in his car in an empty side street in Cardiff, knowing the leader of Torchwood Three was just around the corner in the next alley, grinding up against some complete stranger, he was at a loss as to what to do. He needed to get the Captain's attention, and his first attempt had been a bust. Seeing the Captain in action in the alley had only put him off the idea of seducing his way into Torchwood even more. There had to be another way.

He slumped back in the seat, feeling tired. God but he needed a coffee, but he wasn't like to find anywhere open at this hour that was going to serve him anything apart from that filtered rubbish that sat on reheat for six hours. The kitchen's washing up water would have tasted better.

He twisted the key in the ignition and pulled out, mindlessly ending up parked out the front of the supermarket which did late night trading. In one aisle he found a half decent roast mix, and in another aisle dedicated to small appliances, he found a ten pound French press.

'I love you, Tescos,' he muttered under his breath, taking his prize possession to the checkout.

When he pushed open the door to the dingy apartment, he braced for the worst. Lisa's pained cries were more than he could bear. It had been something of a relief to get away from the tiny room for just an hour or two. If he didn't get help and supplies soon, he didn't know what he'd do. Blessedly, she seemed to be resting somewhat peacefully, dosed up on the morphine he'd managed to procure, giving her as much as he dared, without exhausting his limited supply. He almost wished there was a little bit left over for himself, just to help him sleep.

His mind set as ease, he flipped on the kettle, letting it boil as he tore open the top of the bag of coffee, taking in that first breath of the grounds inside. Few things made him happy, but Lisa and the scent of coffee were at the top of his list, and all he had right now.

Filling the glass jug and letting it steep before he pressed on the plunger, he stared through the deep brown liquid and into nothingness. He had to get into Torchwood, but how? He didn't have a scientific or a medical background, and he was no expert on machinery or technology. Sure, he could navigate a computer, but so could everyone else. He couldn't see how he could find a gap in the current skill set of the Cardiff team, whom he'd researched thoroughly. He was going to have to do something pretty spectacular to pique their interest.

He poured the coffee into his mug and slouched at the counter, feeling utterly despondent. He sipped from the mug, burning his tongue. It was still too hot, but the smell had been so tempting, he couldn't wait any longer.

That's when the idea struck him, like a lightning bolt out of the blue. Could it be that simple? He'd impressed his coworkers in London with his coffee making skills. Might that be his way inside? He didn't have to win them all over, he just had to get to their Captain. He was the linchpin. Given a lack of other ideas, it was worth a try. After all, what was the worst that could happen?