Almost Perfect

DORICE IS HER USUAL RED

Ianto had a quiet first morning as a woman. There was very little Rift activity, and only a few elderly tourists popped into the Tourist Information Centre that he manned above Torchwood. And then there was Dorice from the Shopping Centre, who dropped in with leaflets once a month. Dorice was, mostly in her own opinion, a right laugh. There was something about her that was a bit too red. He was never quite sure if it was her hair, her dress, her make-up or her nails, but the woman glowed.

He was surprised that he still couldn’t work it out. He’d kind of hoped that, now he was a proper woman, he’d have some kind of X-Ray Fashion Vision that would allow him to solve the mystery of Dorice’s redness. But no. There she was, leaving a huge lipstick mark on a cup of his excellent coffee, talking away, all hair and noise and redness. And still just as puzzlingly red. She was just a vaguely unattractive, slightly untidy, mildly overweight woman in her late forties.

But Dorice had talked, on and on, loudly and excitedly about developments and redevelopments in the Bay. Most of her talk was about the ferry crash, ‘which is a shame, as I hope it catches on. I was dead excited at a trip to Minehead. Fancy that – me and Harry taking a mucky break to Butlin’s. You know they’ve got their very own version of the Millennium Dome? Isn’t that nice, especially as I never got to make it to the proper one. Did you dear?’

Oddly enough, Ianto had. One of his very first jobs at Torchwood had been at the Dome. To this day, whenever he saw a picture of it, he’d remember what was sealed underneath it, and shudder.

And now suddenly Dorice was at the door, and smiling. ‘You do look lovely, dear. How long is my little bit of crumpet on holiday?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘The nice lad they normally have running this place. Flirts like crazy, never serious though. You know the type. He’s a very neat young boy. His hair is very carefully arranged.’ She put the last two words in italics.

‘Oh.’ Ianto felt vaguely insulted. ‘Not long, I hope. I’m just a temp.’

Dorice gave him a pitying look. ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear it, dear. Still, with that pair, I’m sure you’ll go far.’

And then the door shut with a tinkle, and Ianto checked his watch. He realised for the first time how wrong it looked – a bulky man’s watch around his tiny wrist. He was going to have to do something about it. Probably involving shopping. And Gwen. Hmm. She’d been a bit odd today – slightly like a cat defending her territory. Hmm. She’d not been like this around Tosh.

The thing was, Owen and Tosh would have been really handy right now. He’d admired Tosh – she was the only person in Torchwood who loved the place as much as he did. Something Ianto could only respect. She was quiet, polite, and thoughtful. Owen was just – well, he could be as nasty and bullying as he could be brilliant and charming. Even in those last months, when he’d hung around, all wrong and broken. Between them, they would know what to do.

He realised, with a certain dread, that he needed to pee again. That was a horror show he still hadn’t got used to. And these shoes were starting to hurt. Really hurt. He’d barely noticed them when he’d slipped them on this morning, but now it was like wearing a small pair of stilts made out of rusty chisels. Unsteadily, he hobbled off to the loo.

When he got back, Jack was there, leaning over his desk with a big grin that didn’t quite meet his eyes.

He reached in the pockets of his greatcoat, and brought out two bottles of beer. ‘I think we should drink to your first day.’

Ianto took them, and snapped them expertly open on the edge of the desk, passing one to Jack. They clinked bottles. Jack wiped it against his sleeve before drinking. ‘I got them from Owen’s medical fridge. He never got round to drinking them, and never got round to throwing them away. But I’d give it a wipe first – one of the livers is leaking.’

Ianto shuddered, and suddenly realised he no longer had sleeves. What was he supposed to do? He made a mental note to buy some tissues. One of those neat little packets. In the meantime, he made do with a leaflet about the new ferry service.

Jack leaned forward over the desk, as relaxed as a cat. ‘Miss Ianto Jones! As your manager, I’m here to ask how your first day in your new body is going.’

‘Fine, thank you,’ said Ianto, not quite meeting his eyes.

‘Settling in? No unexpected… wrinkles?’

Ianto shrugged. ‘It’s… strange. Actually, being a woman is a lot like being a man. Just unsettling. I’m like… You know when your mobile breaks and they give you a replacement that looks OK but isn’t quite right? I’m that wrong phone.’

Jack placed a hand on Ianto’s, and Ianto suddenly realised how small his hands were now. Jack’s touch felt suddenly strange, and he drew back a little.

‘Ianto Jones, I wouldn’t know. Whenever my mobile breaks, you always get me a replacement that’s exactly the same. That’s what I love about you.’

‘Yes, because you can’t stand change. And don’t use that word.’ Ianto looked away. Jack had put the tiniest pause around the word ‘love’. Beneath all that casual Jackness, he was trying to talk about feelings. Ianto had long suspected that Jack didn’t really have feelings – just a succession of sugar rushes.

‘OK. I just want you to know that this doesn’t change things. I know you’re still in there. We’ll get you out.’

‘Good.’

‘And if you want to… after work…’ A raised eyebrow and the Harkness grin.

‘Oh god, no!’ Ianto stepped back, aghast. ‘No. Oh no! Not yet.’

‘I’ll take that as a maybe,’ said Jack, unabashed. ‘Look, we’ll get you your body back. I’ve fired off a few emails to UNIT. Martha’s on the case. And Gwen’s been going through the archives. You’re not unique – Torchwood’s dealt with this kind of thing before. There’s a protocol, some forms, even a pamphlet. The main thing is to try and find out if this is your body that’s been altered somehow… or if there’s been a body swap.’

‘I had been wondering,’ said Ianto. ‘What if my body’s still out there with this poor woman’s mind in it?’

‘Yeah – Gwen’s set up a sweep on any CCTV in case your body turns up. Don’t worry – it’s all in hand. Just get on with living.’

‘That’s easy for you to say.’

Jack pulled a face. ‘Sometimes it is. Sometimes it isn’t.’

Ianto swigged down the rest of the beer and belched. Jack laughed. ‘Oh, if I’d ever doubted it was you…’

‘But you don’t, do you?’ Ianto wanted to know. Partly because Jack’s trust was important to him, and partly because he didn’t want to wake up in a cell.

Again, the reassuring touch, the smile, but the strange look in Jack’s eyes. ‘No. I miss the old you – but I’ll have to get used to the new one.’

There was a silence between them. An awkward one. Ianto put his bottle neatly in the recycling.

Jack clapped his hands and put on some fresh cheer. ‘What say we go out tonight? There’s a town out there just waiting to be painted red.’

Ianto shook his head and swung off the desk. ‘Not tonight. I know you’ll laugh, but I’ve got a sudden urge to go home, run a bath and light a lot of candles.’ Truly, I just don’t want to be around you.

Jack held his glance. He knows I’m lying, thought Ianto. But he nodded, just slightly.

At just the right moment, Gwen came in. ‘Jack! Andy’s been on the phone. Says there’s a body in a restaurant that’s right up your street.’

‘A body, eh?’ Impressed, Jack swung his legs off the desk and bounded into action. ‘Your police friend’s really getting to know my tastes. Sometimes, I don’t know whether to jump him or wipe his memory.’

‘Both,’ whispered Gwen to Ianto.

Jack clapped his hands together. ‘Let’s head out. Ianto – you up for a body?’

Ianto considered. ‘OK. But first I’ve got to pee again.’

PAMELA’S SUDDENLY SHORTER

Torchwood operative

instructions for

When You Discover You’re Not

Who You Thought You Were.

(Last revised 1958)

There are five classic stages to body dislocation and misplacement.

STAGE I: Disbelief, fear and horror

Relax, this is the worst bit. Especially if your consciousness has been transplanted into a non-terrestrial organism, potentially with a superfluity of limbs. The good news is, if you’re reading this, you’re over the worst of it – if your mind couldn’t cope with the alien signal inputs, then it’d all be over by now. Instead, don’t worry.

You’re going to be fine.

From the Torchwood Archives